


Down to Dust

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family Bonding, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-03 04:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 96,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13333533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: After it all came crashing down, Ernesto’s to-do list is short: stay hidden, and wait for the Final Death. Héctor’s is even shorter: enjoy being with his family again.But life - or rather, the living - get in the way even of the simplest plans.[Art for this fic can be foundhere][Extra snippets and oneshots based on this arehere].





	1. The Running Man

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this as a random oneshot, and it ended up getting more serious than I'd intended. I didn't really know where it was going, then the idea for a plot hit me in the face just while I was handling a kettle of boiling water.  
> I scalded my hand because of course I did, but I did like the idea so I can't complain too much.

Getting out from beneath the bell had seemed like a great idea at first.

To be entirely honest - and Ernesto de la Cruz may as well be entirely honest now that he no longer had anything left to hide - it was pretty much the _only_ thing to do. The only other option was waiting there until somebody came to get him, and that was no option at all. He didn’t allow himself to think, even for a moment, that the Riveras were anywhere near done with him.

So he’d ignored the pain of cracked bones - they would heal, all damage healed if given time, the more living people remembered you the quicker it would fix itself - and had managed to make his way out through the shattered wooden boards beneath him. And not a moment too soon: when he’d limped out of the tower, he could already hear people approaching - _lots_ of people, most of them shouting.

He was used to facing loud crowds, but generally they were his fans. Somehow he doubted _that_ was a crowd he would be able to please: he suspected that broadcasting a murder confession right before attempting another murder was the sort of thing that _might_ leave a dent on anyone’s reputation. They couldn’t kill him, nothing but being forgotten could, but they could still tear him to pieces to hand him over to the authorities. Or, worse yet, the Riveras… and that accursed alebrije.

_And do I want another round of that? No, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think I do._

So he’d turned away to run, and he’d never really stopped running since.

* * *

“What the--”

“Hey, look where you’re going!”

“Some manners!”

“Where is he even going?”

There were a few more shouts and complaints, and the sound of something being dropped, but it was just background noise: all that mattered, all that Ernesto could focus on, was running. The cobblestones were still wet from the rain and he slipped when rounding the corner; he hit his left shoulder hard against the wall, but managed not to fall and he didn’t slow down, either. Within moments he had disappeared into the alley leaving behind a few puzzled bystanders, and no one was giving chase.

 _I must have lost them before that bridge,_ Ernesto thought, but he still turned a couple more corners before he allowed himself to slow down. He lowered the hand he’d been keeping on his hat while running - because he couldn’t afford losing it, he couldn’t afford being recognized and finding himself with even more pursuers than he’d had in the first place - and dug it in the pocket of the old ratty coat he’d found some time back.

The bottle of tequila and the tobacco he’d stolen were still there, which was good. He’d almost been caught to get them. He had been a much better thief in his youth - old Pedro had never found who who was it who kept pilfering fruit from his stall at the market - but he was well out of practice now. It had been a very, very long time since he’d needed to steal anything. Not since he’d stolen a life and a song book. He’d gotten away with it for almost a century.

Almost. It was over now.

Somewhere around a corner, there was a laugh. It felt all the world like being mocked, but most of all it reminded Ernesto that he wasn’t supposed to keep standing there, in plain sight of anybody who could walk by. It wasn’t the first time he caught himself being that careless, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped. He’d spent too many years in the spotlight to remember how to stay in the shadows.

But now there would be plenty of time to learn how to be a pariah, he supposed. With everything gone - his mansion, his offerings, his reputation, _everything_ but his memory in the world of the living - time was about the only thing he had in abundance now, without much to do with it. ‘Stay hidden’ and ‘wait for the Final Death’ was just about as far as his plan went at the moment, and the Final Death seemed to be a long time in coming: too many people in the Land of the Living still remembered him well. Whether as a musician or a fraud, it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that they knew of him.

Ernesto de la Cruz had never thought a day would come when he’d wish the world could just forget him.

“... And so I told him, amigo, that mustache is so fake it’s basically a de la Cruz, and he said--”

The voice came from an alley on his left, and Ernesto was quick to get walking, instinctively reaching to pull the hat further down on his face and doing his best to ignore the sting. He’d found out quickly enough that the worst part of being recognized wasn’t the fact he’d be chased down: it was the sheer disgust he would be met with.

Murderers were far from unheard of in the Land of the Dead, of course - they aged and died like everyone else - but he had tried to doom his victim to the Final Death and tried to kill a living child, and that was unprecedented. There didn’t seem to be one single soul left in the Land of the Dead that did not despise him.

_This isn’t right. The world was supposed to be my family._

“Hey, amigo! What’s the time?”

“Time you get a new watch, cabrón,” a second voice piped in, and there was laughter.

“Ha ha, really funny. It just broke, all right?”

“That’s what you get for buying cheap fakes. What model was it, Reloj de la Cruz?”

More laughter, and for a terrifying moment Ernesto had to fight back the urge to turn and reveal himself, scream that they didn’t understand a thing, that he had to do it, that none of them would have ever heard the music they loved so much if he hadn’t done what he had to do - that they should be _thanking_ him for doing what needed to be done. What was he supposed to do? Héctor had been about to leave him on his own, some _best friend_ he was, because his wife and brat were so much more important than him - so much more important than everything he’d ever dreamed and worked for - that he couldn’t even wait one more month to see them, and it didn’t even matter if Ernesto lost everything in the process.

 _You’ll manage,_ he had said, but of course he didn’t really believe it, he couldn’t really believe it. He knew that he couldn’t do it on his own, like Ernesto had, and he just. Did not. _Care._

_Well, two of us could play that game. I could decide not to care, either. And I was better at it, or so I thought. In the end, you did destroy everything. It just took you more time._

“Uh, are you all right?”

The man’s voice caused him to recoil, and realize he’d been standing there in silence for several moments. Ernesto shook his head, looking away. “I… nothing,” he said, keeping his voice low, and walked away quickly, disappearing into another alley.

“Hey, do I know you? Are you Marta’s cousin?” he heard calling out, but he refused to answer, refused to turn, refused to slow down. All he wanted was to get away from there, and for that man - all of them - to just forget about him.

Their laughter kept echoing in his head a long time after he’d left them behind.

* * *

Shantytown was empty, and that made it look even more eerie. Or at least Ernesto supposed it did, because he had never seen it back when those nearly forgotten were living there. He’d never had any reason to even come close to it, and he hadn’t witnessed the moment it had been emptied: he was hiding away in an empty cellar at the time. But he’d heard what had happened, that the Riveras had been given his mansion and that Héctor had decided to invite everybody from the shantytown to live there, as well as everyone else who found themselves with no ofrenda from that year onwards.

“Makes sense, really - the poor sods know that each day could be their last, so why not enjoy themselves while they can?” Ernesto had overheard someone saying. “A shame no one thought of it before, really. We should have been looking after them all along. That Héctor is a pretty great guy. Shame he hasn’t written any new songs, but he’s probably making up for the lost time with his family, you know?”

Somehow, that had been the worst insult: not only Héctor had taken everything, but he’d also given it away like it meant _nothing_ \- just like he’d tried to discard him in Mexico City so many years before. But then he’d been able to keep him from ruining it all; now there was nothing he could do. The game was over and he had lost, and revenge was beyond his reach. All he could do was hiding, and waiting for the Final Death to come.

At least, by emptying Shantytown, Héctor had unwittingly given him a place to stay without having to worry about being spotted and recognized. Even so, Ernesto rarely stayed for long in the same shack and moved around every few days, just in case. It wasn’t like there was anyone else there to claim those misshapen huts; silence was his only constant companion. That, and tequila.

The shack he was staying in now was decrepit, but not quite as filthy as most, and the roof could keep out the rain. There was a table, a few shelves, a couple of chairs - one of which was broken, as he’d found out painfully when he’d first tried to sit - and an old mattress in a corner. Overall, it wasn’t much worse than some of the hotel rooms he’d been in with Héctor, when they were touring Mexico and dreaming of--

_No. Don’t go there._

Chasing the thought away, Ernesto put the tobacco and tequila on the table - he had some food left, too, but not much - and threw the hat down on the mattress. He shrugged off the coat as well with a sigh of relief, and was about to throw it down too when he heard something outside - a snuffling noise.

Ernesto turned, barely holding back a scream, the coat falling from his fingers and on the dusty floor. Through a crack between two boards he caught a glimpse of lime green, there one moment and gone the next, and he knew that it could only be one thing: an alebrije.

_The Riveras’ alebrije. It found me._

For a few moments he could only stand where he was, paralysed with terror, wishing he’d picked a shack with a back exit… but then again, even that would be useless. He couldn’t outrun a winged jaguar. That beast would get him either way, and once it did--

More snuffling noises, and then the thing was at the door. There was a sudden, furious scratching noise at the door, and then… then…

“Yip! Yip! Yip!”

… Wait. That didn’t sound like a giant jaguar at all. That sounded like… like...

Ernesto stepped forward so quickly that he almost stumbled on the abandoned coat, relief melting away the dread. He opened the door to let the alebrijes spill in, all four of them, yapping and wagging their tails, tongues lolling and pawing at his shins they stood on their rear legs, desperate to be picked up. _His_ alebrijes, deliriously happy to see him as they had always been before his world had come crashing down on him like… well, like a giant bell.

There was laughter, and Ernesto didn’t realize right away it had come from him. He crouched down, and all four chihuahuas leapt for him, trying to lick his face. He swept them all up in his arms with another laugh. He didn’t think he’d ever been so delighted to see anybody before. “Hahah! What are you guys doing here? How did you find me?”

Of course it was a stupid question: they were there because they were his spirit guides and because they were always supposed to be by his side. But they’d always behaved like any lapdog would and, in the long run, he’d almost forgotten they were a lot more than pets. He hadn’t even thought that they may be able to track him down, let alone so far from home.

“Yip! Yip!”

“Oh, it’s good to see you too,” Ernesto grinned, letting one of them climb up onto his head. And it was true, because it had been months since anybody at all had been happy to see him. It felt good and maybe it was pathetic, but at that point he’d take that over nothing. “Who are good spirit guides? You are! Yes you are!”

Relieved as he was, he didn’t even think of the possibility his alebrijes may have been spotted and followed. Had he looked some distance ahead he might have spotted a tall, lanky figure staring at him from some distance away as he turned to walk back inside the shack, closing the door behind himself.

* * *

He used to live in that shack.

For some reason, that had been Héctor’s first thought when he’d seen the alebrijes start scratching at that door in particular. If Ernesto was really there - following his alebrijes after spotting them by chance had been more of a spur-of-the-moment decision than an actual plan - there was something really, really ironic about it. And funny, too, though at the moment he hadn’t felt like laughing at all.

Then the door had opened, letting the alebrijes in, and that was _definitely_ Ernesto standing in the doorway. It was impossible to mistake him from anybody else, although he did look a little worse for wear - his bones still blinding white, yes, but wearing old clothes he must have found discarded somewhere and far more dishevelled that he had been - and his posture was different, more hunched, like that of a man who rarely dares look up from the ground.

_Of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t want to be recognized._

That was even more ironic than Ernesto’s new residence was, and it almost did make him laugh. Almost, because then he could see Ernesto crouching down to pick up the dogs, laughing himself, and suddenly Héctor found no humor at all in the situation. Somewhere in the back of his mind something stirred, the memory of crouching down in a barn back in Santa Cecilia on a hot summer day, the smell of fresh straw in his nostrils, his belly full of bread and apples, looking at a small mutt nursing her litter.

“Look how tiny they are! I could hold them all at once!” Ernesto had exclaimed, and he’d proceeded to do just that. He’d been absolutely delighted when one of the squirming pups had begun trying to suckle the tip of his nose. “Hahah! Hey, look at this one’s ears, they’re so big! I’ll call this one Héctor!”

“Hey! My ears are not that big!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Ernesto had replied. He’d grinned at him, showing off a gap where one of his baby teeth had been knocked out and the new one had just started to grow in. “You have the biggest ears I have ever-- hey! Yuck!”

He’d hastily put the puppies back down on the straw, and Héctor had laughed when he’d seen the wet spot on his shirt. “I’ll call _that_ one Ernestito,” he’d said, and he couldn’t remember what Ernesto had said to that, or even if the name had stuck at all. It had been so far away in time, and the memory was already fading away like an old photograph. The laughing boy with a gap in his teeth was gone and so was the barn and the smell of straw, and Héctor was back in Shantytown, watching his murderer picking up his yapping alebrijes in a sickening mockery of what had been.

“Oh, it’s good to see you too,” he heard Ernesto saying, his voice carried to him by the wind, and Héctor clenched his fists, watching the door of the shack close behind him.

Ernesto had always liked small animals; he thought they were adorable. Now Héctor wondered if that was really it, or if he’d actually liked them because they allowed him to loom large, feel bigger than he really was. Was that why they had been friends in the first place, too? Héctor had been almost four years younger and easy to impress, easy to lead. Ernesto had always been the one to call the shots between the two of them.

Until the day he’d put his foot down, and had paid for it with his life and so much more. He’d paid for it with all that he could have been, all that he could have done, all the memories he could have made and shared with his family. All that he had missed. It had all been taken from him and for what? For _songs._ Because Ernesto wanted to be _famous._ Well, he was famous now and he should face the music, shouldn’t he? He shouldn’t get to hide away. He didn’t _deserve_ to stay hidden.

The authorities were looking for him - not as hard as they had at first because they had better things to do, they _all_ had better things to do - but they would be all too eager to get their hands on him if someone happened to let them know where to find him. That someone dead would attempt to kill a _living_ person was unheard of, they had explained, and while they were not entirely sure of what should be done it was agreed that there should be at least some form of punishment.

“Leave him to me, then,” Imelda had said, her voice cold as ice and a boot already in her hand. The officer had been more than a little intimidated, and Héctor had given him a smile that he had hoped was reassuring, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“And ruin your shoe? Not worth it, mi amor,” he added, and he had felt her frame relaxing just a bit, her weight shifting even so slightly against his arm. It was so wonderfully familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, it made him feel almost light-headed. “Let them deal with him. He wasted enough of our time. You’ll tell us when you find him, sì?”

“Oh, of course,” was the reply. “There will probably be a trial, and a public one at that, given who we’re talking about. This is… a unique case.”

That had been a few months ago, and it was probably the last Héctor had thought of Ernesto de la Cruz until now. There was too much to take in - the fact he had not disappeared, meaning that Miguel had somehow managed to reawaken Coco’s memories of him and get her to tell the rest of the living family about him, strengthening him; the fact he could be with his family again, learn all that had happened since he’d been gone, all that he’d missed; the fact he got to be with Imelda again - she was the same diamond he remembered and yet she was different, with so many years and experiences carving new facets on her, and he loved getting to know her again, to fall for her all over again each and every day.

She’d told him about the business she had created, about the woman Coco had grown into, what she was like, and how happy she would be to see him once she crossed over to the Land of the Dead, too. They had been happy months, and busy ones at that, with so much to catch up on. Far too busy to dwell on what had happened before, far too happy to be marred by a single thought on Ernesto de la Cruz.

Except that now he had _found_ him, and the sight alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could forget what he’d done to him, if he tried hard enough; he could focus on his happiness and never think of it again. But what he could not stop thinking about now was how he’d tried to kill Miguel, to take a life that had barely begun. And he’d done so without a second thought, while Héctor pleaded with him not to.

 _A public trial,_ they had said, and the idea gave him a sort of grim satisfaction. That was something that would destroy him, whatever the outcome, and with no damage to Imelda’s shoes. If he was so willing to do what it took to become famous and to keep that fame, it was about time he faced the consequences. He would call the authorities on him and--

“Héctor! Here you are! You have to come! Quick!”

Héctor turned to see Óscar and Felipe running up to him, looking rather winded, like they’d been looking for him for a long time. Felipe skidded to a halt, and reached to grab his brother’s arm before he could tumble past Héctor. From his part, Héctor blinked.

“What is it? Is something wro--”

“Coco!” Óscar exclaimed, cutting him off, and grasped Héctor’s shoulders to give him a shake, his smile impossibly wide. “It’s Coco, Héctor! She’s here!”

_Coco._

For a moment, Héctor’s mind was blank of anything but that one name. Coco was there and _so was he,_ he could see her again, talk to her again, explain himself… but before all else, give her the biggest of hugs. And then another, and _another,_ every day and every hour, until he’d made up for all the hugs he hadn’t been there to give her, and for all the songs they could not share.

_But we can now. We have all the time we need._

“Come, quick! Imelda is already there, and we’ve been lookin-- wow. Now that’s a sprint!”

“And he doesn’t even have the right shoes for it!” Óscar quipped. The remark reached Héctor as though from far away, causing him to laugh, and he just kept on running towards home and his little girl who was not so little anymore, all thoughts of Ernesto almost entirely gone from his mind.

Almost.

* * *

Well, there went the last of his bread.

Ernesto didn’t mind too much, really. He didn’t really _need_ to eat; it was simply something that was done to quell hunger, which was only a distant echo of the hunger the living felt, more of a memory than a sensation. Plus his alebrijes had done well finding him, and deserved a treat. He could do without food, but he’d found he did less well without company.

Also, he had the tequila. That would see him through the next couple of days. Then… then he’d see. Right now, he was so tired that morning felt as far away in time as his Final Death.

Ernesto sat on the mattress, back against the wall, and took a generous swig from the bottle. His alebrijes, now sated, flopped down next to him. One decided to us him as a pillow, and Ernesto reached to scratch his head. “Heh. At least you still love me, don’t you?” he asked, and the alebrije let out a small yip, nuzzling against his hand.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ernesto said, distantly noting that he’d spoken more in that last hour than he had in the past several months, and gulped down another mouthful of tequila before setting it down on the floor and leaning down to rest, using the old coat as a blanket. The dogs moved closer to him - mostly _on_ him, really - and he found their presence reassuring, tiny as they were.

The future didn’t look any less bleak, but he slept better than he had in months.


	2. The Silent Boy

Día de los Muertos, again. Had it really been a year, and one year only? It felt like so much longer.

_And yet I am still here. And will be here the next, and the next, and the next. Whether they get their hands on me or not, I’m going precisely nowhere._

Sitting at the edge of a canal, back against a crumbling brick wall - wouldn’t it be fun if the archway above him collapsed on him right now? Heavy things did have a tendency to fall on his head - Ernesto de la Cruz took another swig from the bottle and glanced up. It was something he tried not to do often, because each time he caught a glimpse of what had been his mansion, and it stung too much to ignore. There it was, bathed in light amidst the celebrations whose sounds - whose music - did not reach Shantytown. The show must go on, he’d told Héctor the previous year, and indeed it _was_ going on… but without him.

_I should be preparing myself for the Sunrise Spectacular right now. It is all wrong._

And instead there he was, hidden away and drinking himself into a stupor. He did not sing anymore, or even hum to himself; hardly any point in doing so without anybody to listen. He’d tried to sing once, to distract himself from the constant hammering of rain on the tin roof above his head, but it had felt as though the words had turned to ash in his mouth. Even a drink couldn’t wash that taste away. He’d never tried again since.

 _You play at your best with a public,_ Héctor had pointed out a long time ago, and it was true. Performing was what he’d loved the most, the one thing that drove him to do his very best, and now he had no public except for dogs the size of rats and rats the size of dogs. For a moment he wondered if Héctor was in his old mansion, celebrating with the rabble he’d lived with until the previous year, but of course he was not. He was certainly off to the Land of the Living to see his precious _family,_ that insufferable sap, and stuff his face with the offerings that accursed boy must have laid out for him. Ernesto wondered if there was any chance either of them would choke.

_Well, a man can dream._

The thought of the boy made him clench his hand around the bottle hard enough to almost snap a finger. Oh, if he'd left him to drown in his pool! But no, he had to go and _help_ him, and and look how he'd thanked him. Not only he’d destroyed his reputation in the Land of the Dead, but he’d proceeded to do as much on the other side as well: word had spread, as more and more recently deceased arrived, that he’d managed to find proof that Héctor, and not him, had written the songs.

He had not talked about murder directly - that would be harder to prove - but the fact Héctor had gone missing in unexplained circumstances, along with the fact Ernesto played the guitar that had belonged to him, had been enough to convince most people that something must indeed have happened. Suspicion, speculation, and only a few stubborn fans arguing against it. It was almost worse than being proven a murderer, because at least that would put the matter to rest, allow people to start forgetting him. Instead, it seemed he was even more talked about than he’d ever been. Someone had even written a book, he’d heard people saying. It would be decades, maybe even another century or two or _more,_ before all memory of him could finally fade from the Land of the Living, allowing him to finally pass on to… whatever awaited next. Maybe he would never be forgotten, after all: his name had become synonymous with _imposter_ even among the living.

 _It’s not fair,_ he wanted to scream, glaring down at the bottle. _I am the reason why you had all of those songs, the only reason. Héctor wanted to keep them for himself, he would have never shared them with the world. You would have never heard them if I hadn’t done what I had to do, what I had to do, what I had to--_

_You’re a coward!_

_No, Héctor was the coward, he was, he tried to run off home and leave me on my own, I couldn’t let that happen, everything was crumbling down to dust and I had to do something. He should have listened, if only he’d listened--_

_Héctor is the real musician! You're just the guy who murdered--_

“SHUT UP!”

There was a sound of shattering glass, the yapping of worried alebrijes, the loud bangs of fireworks lighting up the night sky, and Ernesto barely heard any of it. He clutched at his head, eyes tightly shut, realizing only distantly that the low keening noise he was hearing came from his own mouth.

_I can’t stand this. I’ll go insane if this keeps going and it will keep going because I cannot die, I cannot die, why won’t they let me die?_

There was no answer, but he hadn’t expected any. All he got was yapping and barking, something pawing at him, trying to lick his hands and face. He tore his hands off his head to look down at his alebrijes, at the huge eyes full of concern. He opened his mouth to scream at them, but all that left him was a hoarse whisper.

“You’re supposed to be spirit guides. Tell me what to do.”

They looked up at him, ears pulled back, and whined. Ernesto sat back heavily with a sigh, and shooed them away when they tried to climb on his lap. “Come back when you’ve got a plan,” he muttered, watching them run off, and he didn’t even care how stupid that had to sound. He just made a face, reached for another bottle - the one he’d smashed had been still a quarter full and that was a shame, but he’d come prepared for that night - and brought it his mouth. He didn’t pause until half the contents were gone. Where to? He had no idea. None of the dead had a stomach or even an esophagus to speak of, but somehow whatever they drank didn’t drip down all over their ribs and it did its job when it came to getting them drunk, and that was what mattered.

He went through the bottle, watched the fireworks, went through half of another and then dozed off for a time. He was brought back to awareness by sunrise, and the annoyance of light shining on his eyes. He let out a grunt, blinking blearily, and reached to his left.

His hand closed on something that was not a bottle at all. His thoughts still scattered, he frowned and turned to look at what he’d just grabbed - a shin. He blinked at it for a moment before looking up at its owner; the mere act of tilting back his head caused the world around him to spin, and he stared for several long instants before his brain caught up.

“You’re not tequila,” he finally said, slurring the words.

“No,” Héctor replied, almost agreeably. “I am not tequila.”

* * *

He hadn’t meant to look for Ernesto - hadn’t even thought of him for a moment - until he had seen his mausoleum on their way back.

It had been a night to remember, it really had been; easily the best in the entirety of his life. Well, afterlife. Both, come to think of it. He’d tried for so long to come home to his little girl, and now he was standing by her side, and with his wife, looking upon the a much larger family than the one he’d left behind in Santa Cecilia so many years before. Imelda and Coco had told him about them, of course, but getting to see them was something else entirely… and watching Miguel playing, so happy and proud and passionate, not seeing them but knowing that they were there, had been the highlight of the night.

The only thing that had briefly stolen his thunder was little Socorro, as none of them except for Coco had met her yet. She was beautiful, and it reminded Héctor of Coco at her age; how fitting that she’d be named after her. He couldn’t wait to see her again the following year.

Leaving had been a bit painful, but the sun was about to rise and it was time to go. They had bid goodbye to each member of the family, and Héctor had taken a moment to take a look at the house - it had started out so small, with only him and an expecting Imelda, and it had grown with the family over time; it made him proud of what she’d achieved, with some sadness for not having been part of it - before they headed back.

He had entirely failed to notice the mausoleum when he’d arrived, eager as he was to be home, but he did see it then, and it caused him to pause. It was quite barren when it came to offers, for a mausoleum… and someone had hung a sign around Ernesto’s bust.

_Forget you._

It had caused Héctor to pause, and Imelda had stopped right by him. She’d followed his gaze, and scoffed. “What he deserves,” she’d said, matter-of-factly, and that was it. They had headed back to the Marigold bridge, and Héctor had realized just then that he’d never told her - or anyone else - that he’d found Ernesto in Shantytown. It hadn’t been a conscious lie from his part: in the joy if being reunited with Coco he had simply… forgotten about it.

_Forget you._

Except that he couldn’t now and, the moment they were back, he’d excused himself and headed to Shantytown on his own. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t telling anybody just yet; maybe it was because he wasn’t sure he’d still find Ernesto there, after all. He might have gone away. If he wasn’t there, he’d just visit it to pay his respects to people long gone who had lived there, and then head back. To be entirely honest, part of him had been hoping to find no one.

And instead he’d found him almost right away, and without his alebrijes. He was asleep or maybe unconscious under an old arch by the canal, a coat on him and empty bottles spilled on the ground. One was shattered, and the broken glass had creaked under Héctor’s shoes.

 _Forget you,_ the sign at the mausoleum read, but it was plain to see from the pristine state of his bones - the ratty clothes and reek of alcohol couldn’t hide that - that he hadn’t been forgotten at all. Who he was, and what he had done, was widely known. He may be hated now, but not forgotten. Oh no. If anything, more people knew of him - of them both - than ever before.

Héctor had stared down at him for a few moments, and a familiar bitterness had begun rising in his throat, or lack thereof, again. It would have been easy to him throw into the canal: a swift kick was all it would take and well, now he had good shoes to make it all the more painful. He’d actually been very, very close to doing just that when Ernesto had stirred and, before Héctor could move or say anything, he’d blindly grasped his tibia.

Taken aback, Héctor could only stare as Ernesto blinked up at him. “You’re not tequila,” he said. Whatever Héctor had been expecting him to say, that was not it.

“No,” he agreed. “I am not tequila.”

Ernesto stared at him for a few moments, still holding onto his tibia, then he let him go to run a hand through dishevelled hair. He threw back his head - hitting the back of his skull against the old brick wall in the process, but he didn’t seem to even notice - and gave an unpleasant, braying sort of laugh. It sounded nothing like the easy laugh he used to have, even when blind drunk. But then again, he hardly looked like the man he’d been, too.

_A shell. Take away his reputation, take away the lies, and this is what is left._

“Hah! Hey, hear… yes, hear this out. Why is… why is a condor like a… a…” Ernesto began, only to pause with a frown. He stared ahead for a few moments, clearly confused, then he snorted and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No, nothing. I don’t remember which one it was. But it was a good one. I thought it up, I think, a couple of months ago? Didn’t get to share it with anybody yet.”

Héctor raised an eyebrow. “You’re drunk,” he said. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered a few instances when they'd both been that hammered. When they were young boys they would sometimes drink even though they were not allowed - no, they did it  _because_ they were not allowed to - and for the next few hours they could only lean on each other, talking gibberish and cackling like madmen. It often left them feeling nauseous but elated and very likely to do it again, two foolish children who thought they were only one step away from adulthood.

Unaware of his reminiscence, Ernesto snorted. “Oh, you’re ever so observant, amigo. No wonder it took you ninety years and a brat to figure out what killed you,” he added, and grinned at the fury that showed on Héctor’s face the next moment. The distant memory of the boys they had been faded away like a wisp of smoke. “Now _that’s_ more like it. Have you come to finish the job?” Ernesto laughed again, still sprawled on the ground with his back against the wall. He spread out his arms. “Have you found a way to kill me for good, old friend?”

Héctor frowned. “You know that killing the dead is--”

“Impossible, yes,” Ernesto cut him off, sounding almost bored, and reached to grab a bottle that was lying right by him. He shook it and sighed when he found it empty. “I would know. I tried,” he added, matter-of-factly, and chucked it in the canal. He watched it sink with empty eyes. “Not like you’d put me out of my misery even if you could, am I right?” he added, and that got on Héctor’s nerves more than his previous jab did.

“I spent over _ninety years_ on my own, trying to go home,” he snapped, and anger was back, red-hot and very much welcome. Over ninety times he had desperately tried to cross the bridge, over ninety times he had failed. The loneliness, the despair when he’d realized that his Coco was forgetting him, that he may never get to see again. The longing to see her again, just one more time, even if he never got to speak to her, _oh please I am so sorry I left, let me see her just one more time._ “You have been out here for one year. _One_. And you’re pathetic,” he added, kicking a bottle.

It fell, splashing what little was left of its contents on Ernesto’s trousers. He seemed not to take notice. “I’m fine,” he slurred. “Trying to forget things. No one else will forget me, so I figured I’d get a head start,” he added, causing Héctor to scoff.

“If it helps at all, I have been _actively_ trying to forget all about you.”

“Have you? Thanks.”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Héctor muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm Ernesto entirely missed, or pretended to miss.

“Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one, as far as I know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“There is only one liar here, and it’s not me,” Héctor retorted, and Ernesto laughed again, like he’d just heard the funniest of jokes.

“Hahahaha! ‘Not you’, sure. _You’ll manage,_ you said.”

“What?” Héctor asked, taken aback. Ernesto closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bricks before replying.

“When you tried to leave. I told you I couldn’t do it on my own, and you said I’d manage.”

Oh, Héctor thought. Right. He did remember saying that. “Because I was sure you _could._ I was not lying.”

“Pfft. Liar,” Ernesto mumbled, not opening his eyes. “You knew I couldn’t do it on my own. You were setting me up to fail.”

“Really? Why would I-- I only wanted to go home! I could have written more songs for you! All you had to do was to ask!” Héctor snapped, spreading his arms. “Letters were a thing! Didn’t you think of that for a moment? One time I don’t go along with your plans, and your _first solution_ is murder?”

Ernesto said nothing.

“De la Cruz! I’m talking to you!”

No answer, and Héctor paused. He crouched down, and put a hand on his shoulder to shake him. “Ernesto?”

Ernesto’s head rolled over his other shoulder with a low snorting sound, and Héctor was more than slightly taken aback - but also absurdly amused - to realize he’d just fallen asleep. Or passed out. Considering how much he reeked of alcohol, the second option seemed more likely. Hammered as he was, he suspected he may very well not even remember that exchange when he woke up.

_I can still kick him into the canal._

It was tempting, but in the end he decided to pass: it would wake him up, and Héctor found he didn’t care to hear a single word from him ever again. He’d hit rock bottom pretty hard, anyway, with no real chance of ever climbing out of the hole he’d dug for himself, and Héctor found that was enough for him. No need for kicking, no need to call the authorities; just leave it at that. He had better things to think about - he had a family to be with, and suddenly he felt like an idiot for being there, wasting his time, while he could be home with them.

_I wasted too much time already. That’s enough._

With one last look at the wreck at his feet, Héctor turned and walked away, feeling somewhat lighter as he left Shantytown for the last time. For the next seven years, he scarcely - if ever - thought of Ernesto de la Cruz at all.

* * *

**Seven years later**

_A week to Día de los Muertos, and I feel half dead already._

Manuel screwed the engine’s oil cap in place and climbed back inside the van with a sigh. It wasn’t unseasonably hot, but he’d been loading merchandise for the past hour. His back hurt, his shirt clung to his skin, he hadn’t slept decently in a week and he was facing a long drive to deliver that load to Santa Cecilia. He would have a couple of free days afterwards, though, and he held on that thought as he started the engine.

 _I haven’t checked the tires,_ he thought as he pulled out and began driving. When was the last time he had checked the pressure and wear? Longer than it should be, most likely, but the he’d be happier to eat a toad than to go back, climb down and sort it out. He was late as it was, and didn’t want to get chewed up over a late delivery. He would just drive without pauses and be done with it.

“And then I rest,” he muttered to no one in particular, reaching up to rub his eyes with one hand. They felt scratchy from the lack of sleep, and he wished he’d had another coffee before getting back behind the wheel.

_But no can do, no señor. No time. Got to be thankful they don’t make me piss in a bottle to save time on bathroom breaks._

With a grimace, Manuel turned left at an intersection and just focused on driving. Forget the tires, they couldn’t be that bad. He would get that sorted as soon as he reached his destination.

Satisfied with that decision, Manuel turned on the radio - oh, _Proud Corazón,_ he loved that one! - and began his drive towards Santa Cecilia.

* * *

“It’s Miguel! Miguel is back!”

“Why the surprised act every time? I always come back! _Ooof!_ You got heavier!”

“I did not!”

Miguel laughed off Socorro’s protest and put her down, not without placing a kiss on her cheek that made her scowl in disgust. No sooner that he’d done that Dante was on him, front paws slamming against his chest, tongue lolling against his face. "Ah, good boy! Sit!" Miguel laughed, and Dante improvised what looked like a little dance on his hind legs before he flopped down on his back, all limbs twitching. Miguel's mother had to step over him to give him a hug, and then his father as well. He'd grown taller than him a couple of years back, but it still felt so odd to look down at him.

"Did you have a good journey, mijo?"

"Oh, yes. All was fine," Miguel said, returning their embrace. The guitar on his back made it a tad awkward, and he quickly got it off himself to put it down - just on time to get himself a rib-cracking hug from Abuelita.

“Ah, Miguel! You lost more weight, you did!” she muttered, cupping his cheek. “Have you been eating at all?”

Miguel laughed, and held her back. Of course he’d been eating, and it had only been three weeks since his last visit, but she never skipped that little scene. He was on the lanky side of lean, and that didn’t seem to change, no matter how much he ate. “You say that every time. I’d be a ghost by now!”

“A skeleton, more like. Oh, but I’ll feed you right, muchacho,” she grinned, pinching his cheek. “We heard you on the radio just yesterday! How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Miguel laughed again. “Busy, busy, busy. Got to study, too,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “Where are the others?”

“They went to pick up Rosa and her boyfriend at the train station,” Socorro informed him, making a face that spoke volumes of what she thought of that entire romance business. “He likes to work leather and Abuelita is already thinking of the shoes he could make.”

“Well, one must always think ahead,” Abuelita said, holding the door open. Miguel’s parents walked in, followed by Socorro and then Dante, who ran inside in leaps and bounds. His grandmother, however, paused to glance at him. “Are you coming in?”

“In a minute,” Miguel said, taking a good look at his house and smiling when his gaze fell on Héctor’s guitar and music. He was enjoying being off to study and stretching his legs as a musician, but he still came back every time he could… and of course, nothing on Earth could have kept him away from home on Día de los Muertos. There was still a week left, but he’d taken some time off so he could stay a while longer.

“Well, if you’re just going to stand there… oh, look who’s there! You’re looking for Socorro, aren’t you, niño?”

Miguel turned, and smiled when his eyes fell on the boy standing a few steps from him. He looked up at him from under a mop of thick black hair and smiled, holding up a small whiteboard he always had with him.

HELLO. IS SOCORRO HOME?

“Hello, Ezequiel,” Miguel said, smiling back. “She just went inside. Want us to call her?”

Ezequiel del Rio nodded, and his smile brightened. Predictably enough, Abuelita was all over him the next moment: she’d had a soft spot for that little boy since the very day Socorro had walked back in from school holding onto his hand, saying that he was her ‘bestest friend’. Miguel suspected that his mutism, along with the fact he was a foster care child, had something to do with it the fact Abuelita had looked at him and decided, right there and then, that she had a new grandson. And, to be fair, he _did_ spend more time there than he did with his foster family.

 _Calling it family is a stretch,_ Abuelita had muttered in distaste once, well out of Ezequiel's earshot. Miguel suspected she was being too judgemental - Cheque looked happy and cared for - but he didn’t know enough about it to say much of anything.

“Oh, I’ll call her. She needs to go buy some bread at the market, too - you’ll go with her and make sure she doesn’t eat half of it on the way back, won’t you? Don’t even try that,” Abuelita cut him off with a wave of her hand when Ezequiel began scribbling down a reply on his whiteboard. “You can keep trying to take the blame all you want. I know it was her, the gordita. One only needs to look at you to know you don’t eat enough! When Miguel was your age, he was twice as tall,” she added, and Miguel’s smile turned sheepish.

“She exaggerates. She always does,” he told Ezequiel. He wasn’t really half the size he’d been, of course, though to be fair he was short of his nine years. He was about a year older than Socorro, but half a head shorter. However, Abuelita often said that he’d grow tall.

_You’re sturdy, I can tell. You’ve got good bones, so when you hit your growth spurt you’ll hit it big. If you eat well, that is! Have another!_

“Actually, tell you what,” Abuelita was going on. “I’ll call Socorro and give you both tamales, so that you’re not tempted.”

Ezequiel wrote quickly on the whiteboard before holding it up.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Abuelita sighed. “Ah, look at you. Your smile could melt butter,” she muttered, and turned to walk inside; Miguel heard her calling for Socorro to come downstairs. He chuckled, and glanced at Ezequiel with a raised eyebrow.

“A smile that could melt butter,” he repeated, folding his arms. “Not bad at all, Cheque.”

The smile changed into something more similar to a grin, and Ezequiel wiped the whiteboard clean with his sleeve. I PRACTICED, he wrote, and showed it to him with a cocky tilt of his head. Miguel had to laugh. Little Cheque was wary of strangers, but much bolder with those he trusted… although not enough to talk. Even his sister had never heard a word from him.

“And what about that bread? Was it really all Socorro?”

Ezequiel shook his head and wrote again.

WE SHARED. I TOLD HER BUT SHE DIDN’T BELIEVE ME.

“You’re just too good at playing the angelic orphan, chamaco. You could turn to a life of crime and no one would believe a word of your confession,” Miguel said, causing Ezequiel to give a silent snicker just a moment before Socorro burst out of the door, a tamale in each hand and pigtails bouncing with each step.

“Hi, Cheque! Are you going to stay for dinner? Abuelita says you must stay for dinner, so that wasn’t really a question,” she informed him, and stuck the tamale directly into his mouth. That caused Ezequiel to nearly choke, but he didn’t protest. Miguel suspected Socorro could shove an entire beehive under his shirt, and he wouldn’t even get angry. Not that she would ever do something like that, considering that she’d taken him under her wing. One of her classmates had teased her about it once, saying that she must have picked a mute as her best friend because he couldn’t interrupt her, and Socorro had gotten in trouble for kicking him really hard in the shins.

“We’re going to the market,” Socorro announced, putting an arm around Ezequiel's shoulders while he pulled the tamale out of his mouth with one hand and clipped the whiteboard and marker back on his belt with the other. “Bread, bread and more bread. Do you want anything else?”

“No, I think I’m good. We both known Abuelita will start stuffing me the moment I step in,” he said, and Socorro made a face.

“Oh, the suffering,” she said with a sigh, and grasped Ezequiel's hand. “Come on! Let’s go!”

She was marching off the next moment, taking him with her, and when Ezequiel turned to look at him over his shoulder Miguel waved at them.

“See you later,” he called after them, and Ezequiel - who would never get to hit any growth spurt at all - waved back at him for the last time in that world, the half-eaten tamale still in his hand.

* * *

“Oh, listen to this one! This one if my favorite!”

Socorro skipped to the next song in the player, and it took her all of her willpower not to start dancing down the sidewalk. The only thing that kept her from doing that was that he was sharing the earbuds with Cheque, one each, so she had to keep walking by his side or else he wouldn’t be able to hear the music anymore. He liked listening to music and she was sure he would be good at dancing, because he was quick and nimble, but the only time she’d tried to get him to dance with her he’d frozen on the spot and she’d decided to drop the matter.

It was a warm day, but overcast, and it looked like it might rain. Socorro really hoped they would be able to get the bread and get back home before it happened. Miguel still had to tell her all the news - how was his first album coming along? What was it like being interviewed for the radio and all that? - and she wanted to show Cheque her new luchador mask. He could have her old one, and then they could have a proper match, unless Cheque decided to hold back. She had no proof, but she was _almost_ positive that he went easy on her when they wrestled, and that was annoying because it took away all the fun of beating him.

There was small pull at her sleeve, snatching her from her thoughts, and she glanced aside to see he’d pulled out his whiteboard to write something on it.

IT’S MY FAVORITE, TOO.

Socorro grinned. “I knew you’d like it! Oh, and Miguel said he’s going to play some of the new songs he wrote for us! You’ve got to be there. And you’ve got to try the pan dulce Abuelita makes! Will you come over on Día de los Muertos?” she added. Most people would stay with their families that day, but she knew Cheque's fosterers didn’t put up an ofrenda or anything. And even if they did, there would be no picture of any of his relatives. His mother had left him in care when he was very little and she had been the only family he’d known. She had never come back for him.

_Well, it doesn’t matter. Abuelita says we can be his family and I always wanted a little brother. He’s smaller than me, so he counts as a little brother._

As she’d expected, Cheque nodded with a smile. He had dimples on both cheeks, unlike her, and Socorro smiled back without knowing it was the last time she’d see them. “Great! I’ll tell Abuelita and mamá you’re coming,” she said, and then - to her eternal regret - she glanced across the street. “Oh! That’s Gabriela! I need tell her her dad’s new shoes are ready!” she exclaimed, and took the earbud out of her left ear, handing it to Cheque along with the player. “Here, you can listen meanwhile,” she added before speaking the words she’d wish to take back for a long time to come. “Wait for me here, I’ll be right back.”

And with that she was off, across the street and down the opposite sidewalk. She didn’t notice the van driving past her, a bit faster than it should have.

* * *

_Finally. I thought this drive would never end._

Manuel let out a sigh of relief, and reached up to rub his eyes again. It had been a long drive and a hellish one to boot: he’d had to make several diversions and had even gotten lost a couple of times. But finally, there he was. He was almost there, and then he could rest.

It was with that thought that he pressed down on the gas pedal, just a little more, and put on the direction light to turn at the next intersec--

_Bang._

_Wha--?_

The entire van rocked on one side as though hit by something, and Manuel tried to swerve, to keep control, but the van was thrown on one side. For a moment it was balanced on the right, one the verge of tipping over. The tire, he thought, oh Jesus Christ the _tire…_!

Then the van tipped over, the ground rushed up to meet him, and for a time - until he awoke in hospital three days later, both arms in casts and a surgical wound across his side - Manuel knew nothing more.

* * *

Later on, when replaying the scene in her mind - again and again and again, until her head hurt and she had no tears left to cry - everything happened in slow motion. In truth, it had all been so fast: when death came for Ezequiel del Rio, it was swift as a racing horse.

There was a _bang_ not unlike that of a small firework going off, then a horrible screeching noise, and that was what made Socorro turn in sudden alarm. She saw the van that had just passed her by swerving violently and then tilting, balancing on the set of wheels on the right for a split second before it tipped over and hit the ground with a dreadful crash, flipping and rolling across the asphalt and towards the sidewalk.

And Cheque was there, earbuds in ears and his back to the street, focused on writing something on his whiteboard.

“CHEQUE!”

The scream left her before she even fully realized what was happening, and she tried to run, but it was much too late. He turned, but that came too late, too. She could only see his face one last time, eyes widening when he spotted the van hurling towards him, and then it was _on_ him and he was gone.

Someone screamed, and maybe it was her or maybe some passerby, but it certainly wasn’t Cheque. Even at the very end, he did not make a sound.

The crash covered all other noise, and Socorro Rivera stopped dead in her tracks, her head suddenly wrapped in silence. She saw people running towards the wreckage, she felt someone’s hand on her shoulder trying to pull her back, but none of it caught her attention. All that she could stare at was the small whiteboard that had been thrown some distance away from the sidewalk, a crack in the middle. A black marker rolled slowly across the asphalt a few feet from it.

Then rain began falling, someone carried her away, and whatever Ezequiel had been writing was lost.


	3. The Cursed Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a scale from Ernesto to Socorro, how much responsibility do you take for your best friend's death?

“You don’t understand! It was my fault! He was my best friend and he’s  _ gone  _ and it’s all my fault!”

Even muffled by her own sobs and the closed door of her bedroom, Socorro’s voice was perfectly audible through the house. It made Miguel feel as though his heart was being squeezed and he ached to go in her room, to comfort her somewhat, but he held back. Abuelita was with her now, and she would probably be the best one to handle it. If anybody had ever come close to adoring Ezequiel as much as Socorro had, it was her. 

At least now Socorro was talking, even though each word was a cry of grief. For three days after Ezequiel’s death, she cried her heart out and did not speak at all; not until it had been time for the funeral, and that was when she’d broken down. Miguel supposed that seeing him buried was the final reality check, proof that it was truly happening - that it wasn’t a bad dream she could awaken from. 

There had been a wake, too, but with no open casket as there would usually be. 

“It was… there was nothing that could be done to… it is best if nobody sees,” Tío Berto had murmured later, a glass in his hand and gaze fixed ahead. He had been one of the first to reach the scene of the accident, which had happened just as he was on the way back home from the station with Tía Carmen, Prima Rosa and the boys. “The poor boy, that van weighted at least two tonnes and… I couldn’t even tell who it was until I saw the whiteboard. At least it was quick. He stood no chance, no chance at all.”

As he spoke, Miguel felt sick to his stomach and relieved that Socorro had been spared that sight. After his parents had taken her back home in a flood of tears, Miguel had stayed just enough to talk with Ezequiel’s fosterers. Despite his grandmother’s snide remarks that they were hardly a family to the boy, they did seem grief-stricken; maybe they had been less attentive than they should have been by Abuelita’s standards, but they had cared for him.

“This is not right. A boy of nine doesn’t belong underground,” one of them had said quietly, gaze fixed on the casket. Ezequiel’s cracked whiteboard had been placed on it, and a few people had used it to write their goodbyes. Not Socorro, though. Seeing that whiteboard was what had made her burst into heart-wrenching sobs.

_ He’s not really there, that’s only his body, he’s just across the Marigold bridge, _ Miguel had wanted to say, but he’d held his tongue. He suspected they had heard it all - he’s in a better place, now he’s with the angels, at least he didn’t suffer, the Lord works in mysterious ways - and that none of it had helped at all. Maybe they didn’t really believe in any of it: Socorro said they never put up an ofrenda. 

They  didn’t know, but then again no one  _ knew  _ for sure; if anything they believed it or held onto the hope that the tales were true, but there was no certain knowledge in it. Miguel was the only one to have that and, not for the first time, he thought it was a privilege… though not one he could share without being taken for crazy. A terrible privilege, in a way, and for the first time it made him feel helpless. 

_ I’d do anything to make Socorro stop crying. But if I tell her, she’ll think I’m making it all up. _

“No, niña, it wasn’t your fault,” Abuelita’s voice reached his ears through the door. He’d been standing there some time now, and little by little the rest of the family had joined him to listen. At his feet Dante was lying down with his head resting on his front paws, looking incredibly dejected: even his most outlandish antics had failed to get a smile out of Socorro. 

All of them wished to help, but were not quite sure how to help a child handle a grief so raw and terrible, Miguel least of all. Most children experience their first loss with a pet, or a grandparent or a great-grandparent, as he had. It hurt to say goodbye, but it was a loss that could be rationalized, even without knowing for sure that the Land of the Dead was a very real thing. The sudden death of a child was entirely different.

_ A boy of nine doesn’t belong underground. _

“It was an accident, my little Coco. A terrible accident,” Abuelita was saying. Hardly anybody ever called Socorro with the nickname that had been her namesake’s, but Abuelita always did when she was especially upset.

“I told him to wait for me there!” Socorro wailed. “If he’d come with me it wouldn’t have happened! I gave him my player, and the music was so  _ loud, _ he couldn’t hear anything else! If he’d heard the van coming, he would have-- he could have--”

“It happened too fast. It would have changed nothing.”

“Yes! Yes, it would have!” Socorro protested, and for a moment she sounded almost absurdly  _ offended _ that anybody would have doubts about it. “You don’t know how quick he was! He was the fastest of the class! If I hadn’t told him to listen to music--”

“If the driver had been more careful, nothing would have happened,” Abuelita cut her off, her voice sharp, and she made a clear effort to soften it when she spoke again. “It was not your fault. I’m sure little Cheque knows it. Did he ever hold anything against you?”

There was another, shuddering sob. “N-no,” Socorro choked out. “But he should have because I was so  _ mean, _ I ruffled his hair all the time and I knew I hated it, and… and…” a pause, a sniffing sound. With the mind’s eye, Miguel could almost see the scene again: Socorro reaching to ruffle Ezequiel’s hair, causing him to start brushing it back with an annoyed huff. That thick mass of jet-black hair was probably the only feature Ezequiel had really been proud of; Miguel had caught him glancing into mirrors to check it more than once.

“Oh, niña, he knew you meant no harm. Now listen, we’ll put his picture on our ofrenda, what do you say? So he can come to us on Día de los Muertos. It’s only three days away.”

Socorro had sniffled, and spoken again in a broken voice. “Can we  _ do  _ that?”

“Of course. Didn’t we always say he was like family? We’ll put up his picture and you’ll write him a nice letter telling him how much you love him, to leave on the ofrenda as well. I’m sure he’ll read it when he visits. The petals will guide him.”

“But I don’t want to write him! I-I wanna talk to him! I just want to see him one more time!”

“Oh, but it doesn’t matter how you say it, Coquito,” Abuelita was saying. “He never  _ spoke  _ to you, but his words were important all the same. And when you cross the bridge yourself, you’ll be together all you want.”

“But that’s a long time away!”

“Well, I do hope so. He would be very sad to see you crossing before your time, niña. But I will be there much sooner, and I’ll make sure to look after him until you join us.”

And, in the end, Socorro had stopped crying. She’d come out of her room holding onto Abuelita’s hand, all red-faced but no longer sobbing, holding a photo of Ezequiel in her other hand. It was a picture from the previous summer, and the boy had been looking at the camera with that cheeky grin of his so few people ever got to see, holding up the whiteboard.

IF LOST RETURN TO SOCORRO, it read. Except that no force on Earth could return him to her now, not the way she wanted. Unless…

_ I just want to see him one more time! _

Miguel bit his lower lip, peering through the doorway to see Socorro put her friend’s picture on the ofrenda, her shoulders shaking while she struggled not to cry again. His gaze moved to the oldest picture on it, the one that had been torn apart and then put back together.

_ Unless. _

* * *

The worst thing about it all was the aching sense of  _ absence. _

Her old luchador mask, the one she’d meant to give Cheque so that they could have a proper wrestling match, was right where she’d left it, but he would never get to wear it again. It seemed to stare at her with empty sockets and she wanted nothing more than getting it out of her sight, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to put it away. She hadn’t had the time to give it to Cheque, but as far as she was concerned it belonged to him. A couple of times she caught herself staring at it and wishing that Ezequiel would just walk in and put it on, and she wouldn’t even mind if he went easy on her when wrestling. She wouldn’t mind at all.

When she wasn’t staring at the mask she kept finding black markers, the kind Ezequiel used for his whiteboard: she’d bought a pack after Dante had eaten his old one, so that he wouldn’t be left without if it happened again. She never found any when she was looking for one, but now they seemed to pop out from absolutely everywhere: she’d open a drawer, reach for something on a shelf or even under the bed, and there it would be - a brand new marker Ezequiel would never use to talk to anybody. She couldn’t bring herself to throw any of them away.

_ He might need them, _ she thought, but of course he wouldn’t. She wondered if he could talk in the Land of the Dead, and what would his voice sound like. Had he found any of his family? Did they brush his hair well before they buried him? Cheque hated it when his hair wasn’t brushed properly. Would he really come that night? She hoped he would, because she had written to him like Abuelita had suggested and now the letter was on the ofrenda, beneath his picture. And if he read it… if he did… how would she even know? What would he think? Did he blame her? Was he mad? She just didn’t know. She would never know.

_ This is stupid. This is just a story for little kids. The dead don’t come back, Cheque will not come back and no one will read that stupid letter. He’s gone and it’s my fault and it’s all wrong. _

She hadn’t shared those thoughts with anyone, though, and she’d just watched her family go through the preparations for Día de los Muertos. For the first time she hadn’t gone with them to freshen up the family graves when the day came, and even Abuelita had said nothing about it. In the end, however, it had been Miguel who’d suggested they go to the cemetery in the early evening. Socorro had seen him talking quietly to Abuelita and their parents before he approached her. 

“We may be away a while, but I think it would help,” she’d heard him telling them before he’d walked up to her and crouched down next to her chair. “Why don’t we visit Ezequiel together?” he’d suggested. She’d been sitting there with the luchador mask and a couple of markers on her lap for several minutes, unable to look away. “So you can leave those to him. They can be his offerings.”

“Offerings are stupid,” Socorro had heard herself saying, her voice broken up. “He’ll never get to have them.”

“You may be surprised, gordita,” Miguel had said, and pulled her in a hug. “Actually, I think you’ll be  _ very _ surprised. Just come with me. We’ll visit Mamá Coco’a grave, too. There is something you need to see there.”

She’d gone with him because she could never say no to Miguel, but also because she didn’t want to keep seeing the ofrenda with Ezequiel’s picture on it. He was supposed to be with them that evening, in the flesh, not as some kind of restless ghost she kept seeing in everything she looked at.

_ All in my head. He’s not here. He’s not anywhere. _

The walk to the cemetery was brief and silent, with Dante skipping ahead of them and occasionally stopping to roll into marigold petals, or just flop onto them like a fish on dry land, nearly running into people when the rustling scared him. His antics made Socorro smile a bit for the first time in days, but that smile was wiped away when she found herself looking at Ezequiel’s grave.

There was no proper tombstone, that was not ready yet, but there was a wooden cross with his name on it, and a string of numbers: his date of birth and death, with less than a decade between them. But the cross was hard to see amongst all the flowers, candles and offerings that had been laid on the freshly-dug earth. Some had been there since the funeral only a couple of days earlier, but other things must have been brought there that day. A lot of people had come to bid him goodbye. 

And now she was there, too.

Everything became blurry for a few moments, and Socorro needed to wipe her eyes with the luchador mask before she crouched down and put it down on the grave, along with the markers. She was suddenly very grateful to Miguel for staying some distance away; she needed a minute before he could go with them to visit Mamá Coco’s grave and see what the surprise was supposed to be. 

“These are yours,” she managed. Her voice shook, but didn’t break. “I am so sorry I told you to stay there, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I wish I could take it back,” she choked out, and was about to speak again, but her gaze fell on the whiteboard among the flowers and her voice failed her. Someone - other children from school, maybe - had written down their goodbyes on it, but all of the scribbling couldn’t hide the crack that ran in the middle of it. With the mind’s eye she saw it lying on the street, a marker rolling only a few feet from it.

Socorro reached for it without thinking, her sight blurring again. She stood, trying to blink away the tears and to make any sense of the goodbyes scribbled on the whiteboard, but she found she didn’t want to see them. They were not supposed to be there, there should be no one’s handwriting on that whiteboard other than Cheque’s. He’d been writing something just before the van crashed on him, and she had no idea what it had been about. She would never know. Cheque never even got to have his last words known.

_ Wait for me here, I’ll be right back! _

A sudden sob wracked Socorro’s chest, tearing all breath out of her lungs, and suddenly she couldn’t stand being anywhere near his grave anymore. She didn’t want to be there in the cemetery at all, she didn’t care what Miguel wanted to show her on Mamá Coco’s grave; she just wanted to be far away, someplace where nothing reminded her of the dead. 

Without thinking, Socorro clutched the whiteboard to her chest and turned to run off, startling the visitors who were tending to nearby graves, and ran past the tombstones without slowing down. Dimly, she heard Miguel calling out for her, heard the urgency in his voice, but she had no time to pause, no time to turn, no time for anything.

The petals shone, and that was it.

* * *

“Socorro! NO!”

Miguel’s cry caused several people to wince and turn to him, but he hardly took notice. All that he was aware of was Socorro, the whiteboard she was holding to her chest, the fact she was running away from the grave where it belonged. 

_ Maybe nothing will happen, _ he thought in a frantic second, _ she’s just upset, she doesn’t mean to steal it, it is not the same thing, it is not-- _

Then Socorro disappeared behind a grave and did not reappear on the other side, and that hope was dashed. Miguel ran to that spot as quickly as he could heart hammering in his throat and barely avoiding slamming in several visitors, and sure enough there was the whiteboard, lying on the ground… but no Socorro.

Of course that wasn’t true: she was still there, had to be, only that Miguel couldn’t see her. Not yet, anyway. Unless she’d already run off - what would he do if she’d ran off?

“Ruff! Ruff!” Dante rushed past him, almost knocking him over, and to his utter relief he launched himself at what appeared to be thin hair. His front paws definitely hit something, or rather someone, and he stayed on his back legs for a few moments before licking what Miguel supposed had to be Socorro’s face. 

“Socorro, it’s okay. Whatever you see, don’t move and stay here with Dante. I know what’s going on and I’ll explain everything. I’ll be right back,” he added, and with that he was rushing back through the cemetery, past the barren mausoleum that held Ernesto de la Cruz’s body, towards what was supposed to be their second stop: Mamá Coco’s grave. 

It was all right, Miguel told himself, nothing irreparable had happened. Sure, he had planned to have Socorro take something from her grave along with him so that they could both return to normal with their family’s blessing, but he could fix that. She’d only need a blessing from Ezequiel, or from any dead person related to him, and finding Ezequiel was precisely what his plan had been all about. All would be well.

But first, he had to get himself cursed as well.

There was a pair of dancing shoes Abuelita had crafted with her own hands resting on Mamá Coco’s grave, along with the flowers and candles. With a mumbled ‘sorry’ Miguel reached to snatch them and walked away; a few steps was all it took before the marigold petals around him glowed, just like they had eight years before. Around him the cemetery was now even more crowded than it had looked before, the dead and the living mingling together amongst the candles and gifts. So far, so good.

Making mental note to apologize to Mamá Coco for that - and grinning a little at the thought he would get to see and talk to her again soon - Miguel sprinted back where he’d left Dante and Socorro, weaving around the dead and barrelling through the living. He found them exactly at the same spot, Dante sitting with his tongue lolling and Socorro pressed close to him, staring speechlessly at the skeletons walking all around them. 

“Socorro! It’s okay,” Miguel exclaimed, crouching in front of his sister and putting a hand on her shoulder to let her know that he could see and touch her now. “I can explain everything.”

His sister turned to look back at him with eyes wide as saucers, arms tight around Dante’s neck. “Miguel?” she whispered. “I see dead people.”

* * *

“Aww, look at Rosa! Isn’t she gorgeous!”

“And her boyfriend, see how he’s looking at her? Ah, young love!”

“Even Elena seems to like him. I’m amazed.”

“He works leather, that’s why. Good to make shoes.”

“That  _ does _ explain a lot.”

“She looks distracted though, doesn’t she?”

Coco’s comment caused the rest of the family - the deceased, at least; the living were unaware of their presence as always - to fall silent and turn their full attention on Elena. She was talking with Enrique, placing a plate down on the table, but it was true that she seemed somewhat distant. Of course, Coco  _ had _ to be the first one to notice. She wasn’t her mother for nothing.

Imelda frowned, crossing her arms and turning away from her granddaughter. It wasn’t the only thing that seemed off. “I haven’t seen Miguel and Socorro around yet. Surely they should be here by now?”

Beside her, Felipe shrugged. “Maybe they’re just off someplace and will be right back?”

“It’s only early evening,” Óscar agreed. “There is still plenty of time for them to get here. Maybe--”

“Hey, guys! Come take a look at the ofrenda!” Héctor called out, cutting him off. He’d wandered inside the house, maybe looking for Miguel and Socorro, and the rest of the family found him in the ofrenda room. He was staring at something on it, and Imelda approached to see what it may be. 

There was a new photo on the ofrenda, a smiling boy none of them had seen before. Imelda frowned in confusion. “Who is this?” she wondered aloud, knowing full well none of them had the answer. Her eyes fell on the whiteboard the child was holding, and the writing on it. “If lost return to Socorro?”

“Must be someone she knew, then.”

“And so young!” Rosita sighed, clearly saddened. “Dying must be so scary when you’re only a child. It’s unsettling enough for an adult!”

“Now, now, we’re not certain he’s dead,” Julio said, patting her arm. Victoria shook her head.

“His picture wouldn’t be on the ofrenda if he wasn’t dead. I haven’t seen him anywhere, though,” she added, glancing around. Beside her, Coco did the same. 

“He might visit, since his photo is here...”

“Oh, wait! Is that a letter?” Felipe spoke up, pointing at something right by the photo. 

“It is!” Héctor reached to take the letter, which split in two, leaving a spirit copy in his hand. The rest of the family moved closer to look. “Let’s see, it’s from Socorro to one Cheque…”

It wasn’t a long read, only a couple of pages in the large handwriting of a child, the ink smudged by what could be nothing but tear stains. Héctor read aloud, but his voice became quieter and quieter as he kept going. By the time he finished, Rosita was crying loudly and Julio was patting her arm again. Imelda let her gaze wander on the last lines again.

_ I miss you so much. I’m so, so sorry. You’ll always be my bestest friend and I will never, ever forget you.  _

“A friend of hers, then,” Coco was saying, and Héctor lowered the letter so that she could take a look without having to stand on her toes. “Some sort of accident… the poor thing, she must be so upset. Maybe that is why she’s not here yet?”

“Maybe she’s upstairs,” Héctor said, and it seemed reasonable to Imelda. Maybe Miguel was with her, trying to comfort her.

“We can keep our eyes peeled for this boy, too,” Coco said. “He may show up later, and it’s only fair he sees the letter if he do--”

“Guys! Hey! GUYS!”

“Wha--?” Imelda turned on time to see Miguel running inside, with Socorro and his alebrije in tow. For a moment she thought there had to be something urgent he needed to tell his living family - then she saw him and his sister both running  _ through _ their father and towards them, and she knew things were just about to get more complicated than that.

_ Oh, here we go again. _

“Miguel!”

“Hey, Miguel!”

“What are you doing here? I mean,  _ here _ here?”

“Socorro! Coquito! You’re so cute, let me give you a hug! Oh, Coco, she looks just like you!”

“Mamá Coco! Ah, I’ve missed you! Whoa, Héctor! You look great!”

“Chamaco! I still get to call you that, right? Stop trying to grow taller than me, this is weird!”

“Ruff! Woof!”

“Hey! Hey! That’s mine! Let go of my femur! Óscar, help me! What kind of alebrije  _ are _ you?”

“Guys, this is Socorro, but I’m sure you already knew! Socorro, this is Mamá Coco! And Papá Julio, and Tío Felipe, Tío Óscar, Tía Victoria, Tía Rosita…”

For several moments, the small ofrenda room was absolute chaos. Imelda waited until the chaos had settled some - until both Héctor and Coco had let go of Miguel, until Felipe managed to retrieve all of his bones from the alebrijes’ mouth, until Rosita finally put down a bewildered and wide-eyed Socorro - before she cleared her throat. Just like that, all noise died down and everyone turned to her.

Good. That was a start. 

“Hello, Socorro,” she smiled at the girl, then turned to Miguel, hands on her hips. His attempt at a smile quickly turned into a sheepish grimace. Héctor took his hand off his shoulder and stepped aside, as though to avoid being caught in a blast, and shrugged apologetically at Miguel’s unimpressed look. Imelda hardly took notice. “Miguel. I trust you can explain this?”

He could, and did. And, to her surprise, it wasn’t something she could bring herself to be angry about. Once Miguel was done talking she glanced back at Socorro, who seemed to have gotten over her shock enough to talk. 

“I… I didn’t know! And I didn’t mean to steal it!” she protested. “I just wanted… I only…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, niña,” Héctor said gently, crouching down next to her. “We know. I would have been distraught, too, if my--” he began, but then he trailed off, and just patted her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he repeated. No one seemed to take notice, but Imelda did see the change in his expression for a moment, and she knew exactly what it was about. 

Yes, he would have been just as distraught if he’d seen his best friend killed in front of him as a child - but given  _ who _ that friend had been, and  _ what _ he turned out to be, it wasn’t something Héctor wanted to dwell on. Nor did she; they had more urgent matters at hand.

“Papà is right,” Coco was saying, putting her hand on the child’s back. Unlike Héctor, she didn’t need to crouch to do so. “We can fix this very easily. Your friend can give you the blessing you need to go back.”

Socorro looked up at her, and suddenly brightened. “Wait, this is… this is real! You’re really here!” she exclaimed, causing Victoria to raise an eyebrow. 

“Well, you’ve caught on. Must have taken after your mother’s side of the family,” she muttered, gaining herself a slap on the arm from Rosita. Socorro, however, ignore the jab.

“That means Cheque is here, too!” she exclaimed, and ran out in the yard before they could tell her otherwise. “Cheque! Cheque!”

Miguel turned to look at them. “Have you seen him at all? It’s the kid in that picture.”

Coco shook her head. “I’m afraid not. We were just talking about him when you showed up. We didn’t see him around.”

“Oh. But maybe he will come later…?”

“Maye, but we won’t be waiting around meanwhile,” Imelda spoke up. “We may have the whole night ahead of us, but last thing I want is  _ another _ last minute save. We’re going straight back to the other side. At the very least, they’ll be able to tell us if he crossed over to the Land of the Living or if he’s still on the other side.”

“She’s right. As usual,” Héctor smiled at her like he’d just heard her stating the tenets of the universe, and while Imelda rolled her eyes - it  _ really  _ wasn’t the right moment - she didn’t entirely mean it. “Besides, the sooner we find him, the more time he and Socorro can spend together before she gets her blessing. I can go with them,” he added, turning to the others. “If you want to stay here--”

“Oh, nonsense,” Victoria cut him off. “This is a family matter. We’re coming with you.”

Coco shook her head. “Regardless, at least someone should stay here, in case the child comes while you’re away. Julio, dear, would you…?”

“Of course. I’ll keep an eye out for him,” he replied, giving her hand a squeeze. “Miguel, you may want to fetch Socorro before she wanders off looking. One missing child is enough.”

As Miguel rushed to do just that, Imelda glanced back at the ofrenda, at the photo of the boy, and frowned. Everything seemed to be reasonably under control - they just had to find the child, and Socorro would have both closure and the blessing she needed to return home.

And yet she couldn’t shake off a very, very bad feeling about that entire business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Area Family Tired of Snatching Grandkids from Jaws of Death.


	4. The Lost Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thanks to AlegatorKirsche for helping me out with some Spanish questions I had! If I don't fuck it up _too_ badly throughout the fic, that's who you've got to thank.

“I’m _telling_ you I have a bad feeling about today.”

Three tiny heads tilted on one side as his alebrijes stared at him, sitting on the mattress they all slept on, eyes following him as he paced back and forth across the shack. Of course they didn’t reply, but that changed little. It wasn’t like there was anybody else Ernesto could have a conversation with - there hadn’t been in _years_ \- and so they would have to do.

_And yes, I am very much aware that I’m losing it, thank you ever so much._

One alebrije yapped, and he sighed. “I know, _I know,_ I always say that,” he muttered, running a hand through this hair. “I have a bad feeling every single Día de los Muertos. So sue me. This time it’s a very _bad_ feeling.”

More head tilts, a soft whine, and Ernesto scoffed. “I don’t know! Shouldn’t _you_ know? Some spirit guides you are!” he snapped, then he let out a sigh and let himself fall back on a chair. It creaked slightly in protest - one of those days it would just give in under his weight, he was sure of it - but held up. Ernesto reached for the bottle on the table, but he paused and let his hand fall instead. It was his last bottle and the night had barely started; if he drank now, the effects would wear off too quickly. He suspected he would want a drink or two or twenty before it was over, especially when the fireworks began.

He could no longer stand the sight, or even the sound, of those celebrations. He would stay in the shack, like he had the previous year and the one before that, trying to shut out all of the lights and noise and think of nothing.

_I never understood what my old man kept looking for at the bottom of a bottle, but do I now, friends and neighbours? Yes, I believe I do. I didn’t fall as far from the tree as I thought I had._

Ernesto’s gaze fell on his hand, and he clenched it in a fist. His bones were still snowy white and strong as they’d always been, his joints in perfect working order. No sign of yellowing, no sign of weakening… no sign he was one year closer to being forgotten.

_Scratch all that. I need a drink now._

He reached for the bottle, but before his fingers touched it his gaze fell on his alebrijes again, and his hand froze in mid-air. He stared at the three tiny dogs for a moment before he blinked a couple of times and looked again. No, his eyes were not tricking him: there were only Lobo, Clara and Zita looking back at him, with Diablo nowhere to be seen. Realization sank in like a stone in water, and his hand fell on the table.

One of his alebrijes was missing.

* * *

The Department of Family Reunions was about as busy as Miguel remembered it, but they were able to get a clerk to hear them out almost right away. It wasn’t the same one as the previous time, though, and Miguel didn’t like his attitude much. He looked half-bored, half-annoyed, and entirely unimpressed with the situation at hand.

“What you’re saying is, you _stole_ from a grave.”

“I didn’t mean to steal it!” Socorro protested, and this time she was starting to sound angry. It looked like the shock of it all - of finding out that the Land of the Dead was real, and that Miguel had been there before - was finally wearing off. “I just…”

“Took it from a grave and ran off?”

“Yes, but I--!”

“Oh, give the niña a break!” Héctor snapped, crossing his arms. “Can you find out if someone has crossed over, or are you here just to keep that chair nice and warm? Huh?”

The clerk shot him an annoyed glance, but then he caught sight of Imelda’s scowl, and cleared his throat before looking back at his computer. “I can do that, of course. The deceased’s name again?”

“Ezequiel,” Socorro replied. “Ezequiel del Rio. Can I _really_ see him?”

“Well, you better hope so,” the clerk muttered, and began typing away on his keyboard. He stared at the screen for a few moments, then he blinked, rearing back. “Well, I’ll be! It’s _that_ boy!” he exclaimed, and reached to press a button on his desk before any of them could say anything. “Elvira? There are some people here to see case file 24601. No, no, not his family, but… can you take him here as soon as possible?”

Miguel blinked. “Case file?” he repeated. “What’s going on?”

The clerk leaned back on his seat, folding his hands together. “Well, when children come to the other side, of course we need to reunite them with their family here in the Land of the Dead. Someone to look after them. There usually is at least someone, but in this case we could find no one.”

“No one?” Rosita exclaimed, horror plain in her voice. Beside her, both twins had brought a hand up to their mouths. To _each other’s_ mouth, really. “No one at all?”

“No. Any dead relative of his we could trace were forgotten. Gone,” he added with a vague gesture of his hand.

The mere idea - winding up dead as a child, and with no one to look after you in the afterlife - caused a peculiar sense of dread to settle in the pit of Miguel’s stomach. It occurred to him that he knew next to nothing of Ezequiel’s family history; only that he’d been left in foster care by his mother when he was only two or three, after his grandmother had refused to take him in. Word was that his mother had been a part-time drug dealer as well as a full-time user, though Miguel had no idea how much of it was true. Had she forgotten her dead the way she had left behind her son?

_No family in life, and no family in death. How can it be?_

“As the boy is on his own, we couldn’t simply let him go his way,” the clerk was going on. “I mean, he doesn’t talk to boot! He’s been staying with one of our case workers, and until we figure something out--”

“But he’s got me!” Socorro exclaimed. She grasped the edge of the desk and glared up at the clerk as though challenging him to say otherwise. “He’s got us! Abuelita said we would be his family! His picture is in our ofrenda and all!”

“Why, Socorro is right!” Tía Victoria said, straightening her glasses. “His photo _is_ on our family’s ofrenda.”

Miguel nodded. “Oh, yes! That’s got to count for something!”

“We _can’t_ leave him all alone,” Tía Rosita added.

“It would be just dreadful,” Tío Felipe said.

“Barbaric,” his twin agreed.

“And if my daughter said he’s part of the family, then he is,” Mamá Coco added, causing Héctor to put a hand on her shoulder.

“That’s right! Can’t argue with that,” he said, and turned to glance at Mamá Imelda with a grin. “What does the head of the family say?”

Imelda met his gaze with a raised eyebrow before letting her eyes wander on the entire family. Miguel grinned at her, and she sighed. “The head of the family suspects that the decision has already been made,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Very well. If the boy is willing, he can come stay with us.”

“Yes!” Socorro exclaimed, and launched herself at her to hug her legs. “Thank you! Thank you thank you thank--”

A knock on the door caused her to trail off, and Miguel turned to see the door opening, revealing a case worker… and, right behind her, there was Ezequiel.

He looked different than last time he’d seen him, of course, but Miguel could see the boy’s face in that skull. His dimples were gone for good, but now there were markings of pale blue and silver across his cheekbones and brow. His eyes were still the same, as well as the head full of thick black hair… and if there were any doubt left, the clothes he’d died in and the whiteboard clipped at his belt would have dashed them away. That was Ezequiel all right - not quite in the flesh, but him all the same. Miguel could tell right away and, after a moment of silent shock, so could Socorro.

“CHEQUE!”

Her cry was almost deafening in the small room, but Miguel didn’t care at all. He could only give a large, probably rather dumb-looking smile when his little sister threw herself at her friend, almost making him topple backwards. He caught himself on time, though, and clung right back to Socorro in a tight hug. He didn’t make a noise, but Socorro made enough for both of them.

“Oh, I thought I was never going to see you again! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, it was all my fault!”

That caused Cheque to blink and pull back in clear confusion, which turned into something slightly closer to panic when he saw Socorro was crying. He immediately shook his head and reached for his whiteboard. IT WASN’T YOUR FAULT, he wrote, and Socorro sniffled.

“But if I hadn’t told you to stay, you--” she began, only to trail off when Cheque frantically shook his head. He seemed about to write again, then he put the whiteboard away and snatched a clicker pen from the closest desk instead.

“Hey! That is office property!” the clerk tried to protest, but absolutely no one paid him any mind - least of all Cheque, who began clicking the pen like a gun machine. That caused Tía Victoria to blink.

“What is he doing?” she asked, and Miguel shrugged.

“Morse code, I guess,” he replied. “Or something they made up that is close enough to it. He and Socorro use it to copy off each other in class.”

“Hey, now _that’s_ clever! Way to go, kids,” Héctor exclaimed, only to pause when both Mamá Imelda and Tía Victoria turned to give him an unimpressed look. He gave a tentative grin. “I mean… don’t do that? Bad, bad kids?” he tried, and Miguel had to hold back a snicker. Beside him one of the twins muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘still rather ingenious’, but he turned his attention back on Cheque on Socorro instead.

“... And the whole town was there! Or at least, Miguel told me it was. I… I was too upset to go,” she added, and Cheque rapidly clicked the pen in response. Miguel couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it did get Socorro to smile a bit before she frowned. “Did it… did it hurt to die?” she asked, and her relief was palpable when Cheque shook his head.

To be honest, Miguel was relieved himself. “You’re looking good, chamaco. Those are some cool markings you’ve got,” he said, crouching down, and Cheque turned his attention on him for the first time. He smiled at him before he frowned, and quickly wrote on the whiteboard, the pen disappearing into his pocket.

HOW DID YOU GET HERE? YOU’RE NOT DEAD, RIGHT?

Miguel shook his head. “No, we’re not. Long story short, we were visiting your grave and… Socorro took something. To remember you by. But it’s kind of a no-no on Día de los Muertos, and Socorro will need your blessing to go home. It happened to me before, but my family--”

“Oh! Our family!” Socorro exclaimed, and immediately grasped Cheque’s arm to drag him past Miguel, and in front of the rest of the Riveras. Cheque looked up, clearly intimidated, but Socorro kept talking. She introduced each of them, and they all smiled when their name was spoken, which seemed to make the boy less nervous.

“... And Papá Julio, too, but he stayed at home in case you went there. We put up your picture! You’re one of the family now! Right, Papá Héctor?”

Cheque turned to look at him, clearly taken aback but suddenly looking so hopeful it almost hurt. It must have been terrifying, Miguel thought, waking up dead at that age and with no one to welcome him on the other side… and if anybody could understand, that was Héctor.

“That’s right. We’ll look after you from now on, if you’re okay with it,” he said, crouching down. “Once you give Socorro the blessing to go home, you can stay with us and we’ll wait for these flesh bags to come join us on the fun side. I guess there will be some bureaucracy to go through but hey, we can deal with that. What do you say, muchacho?”

Cheque blinked up at him a couple of times, still incredulous, and his gaze wandered on the rest of the family before he smiled back and reached for the whiteboard. DEAL, he wrote, and then he looked at Mamá Imelda - funny how he could guess that she had the final word there - and added: THANK YOU.

She smiled back. “It’s settled, then.”

“We’ll teach you all we know about shoes!”

“And about turning your arms into offensive weapons!”

“Is that one _strictly_ necessary?”

“Well, you never know when it may come in handy.”

“Aww, you’re so cute! Let me hug you!”

“Let’s give the child a moment to process,” Mamá Coco said quickly, moving Cheque away from Tía Rosita’s grasping hands. “After all, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know him. Little Socorro can’t stay for long. Give them some time before he gives her his blessing to go home and--”

“Well, _that_ will be interesting.”

The clerk’s remark caused everybody to turn back to him, and Miguel to frown. He didn’t like the tone he’d just used, didn’t like it at all. “What do you mean?”

A shrug. “Oh, you’ll see in a moment. She needs his blessing, yes? Very well. Here’s the marigold petal,” he said, picking one from a vase by his desk and holding it out to Cheque. “Take it, and hold it up. Yes, like that. Now, you look at the living and… your name?”

“Socorro.”

“Very well. Say: 'Socorro, I give you my blessing to go home',” the clerk finished, and Cheque looked at him with wide eyes, utterly lost, causing him to sigh. “Just as I expected. I am amazed none of you thought of it,” he added, looking at the family in front of him. Most of them could only stare, speechless. Tía Rosita brought both hands to her mouth, and Socorro stared at the petal in clear horror. Miguel opened his own mouth to say something, but he found he couldn’t do it: the implications of what he had just witnessed were too great for him to process right away.

_He can’t talk. If he can’t talk, he can’t give a blessing._

For a moment, the room seemed to swim in front of his eyes; never in his life he’d felt so close to fainting. Then Mamá Imelda spoke up, and he clung to her words.

“There must be another way,” she snapped. “Writing the blessing should do as well--”

“No writing. No clicking. Nothing but bestowing the blessing aloud will work,” the clerk replied. “These are the rules.”

“And can’t you make an exception?” Héctor tried, gaining himself an unimpressed look.

“Señor Rivera, if the laws of life and death were mine to decide, I would not be here on a desk job,” the clerk replied, and looked down at Cheque. “He needs to try harder,” he added, causing Cheque to wince. “What do you say, boy? Have you had enough of this charade?”

Wait. Charade? What was he talking about?

“It’s _not_ a charade,” Socorro protested, outrage snapping her out of her white-faced horror. “Ezequiel can’t--”

“Don’t you want your friend to go home?” the clerk was pressing on, eyes fixed on Cheque - who, on the other hand, had dropped the petal as though it had caught fire in his skeletal hand. “What are you trying to do? Keep her here with you?”

“Stop that! It’s not his fault!” Socorro snapped, kicking the desk. “He can’t talk! He had surgery that went wrong when he was little and his vocal cords don’t wor--”

“That’s not it,” the clerk replied, sounding so sure of himself that Socorro trailed off. “Either he lied then, or he’s lying now. Do you see _any_ vocal chords there? Does he have any now?”

“Well, no, but--”

“Such physical limitations do not carry over to the Land of the Dead, especially if they affect soft tissues,” he went on, like he was stating the tenets of the universe. “If that’s the reason why your friend was unable to speak in the Land of the Living, then he should be able to talk now. He doesn’t _want_ to speak, is all. Not even to save you, it see--”

“Hey! Enough!” Miguel snapped at him, but something not too far away from dread was already gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Socorro stepped back, clearly confused, and turned to look at Ezequiel - who, on the other hand, was staring at all of them with the wide-eyed gaze of a hare caught in the headlights.

 _There’s a block there somewhere. It’s not his fault,_ Miguel thought, but that did little to help, with the terrifying reality dawning in: unless he managed to talk Socorro would have no blessing and, come dawn, she would be trapped in the Land of the Dead.

“Cheque?” Socorro called out, her voice thin. “That’s not true, is it? It was surgery gone wrong. You told me your vocal cords were damaged. Did you… was that a lie? Or is it true and you’re just… are you... can you _speak_ now?”

Ezequiel took a step back, shaking his head. He opened his mouth again, and it looked like he was straining to talk, but nothing came out. Not one sound.

_But he is a good actor, he always was. What if he can talk now, after all? What if he really wants to keep Socorro here?_

The thought chilled Miguel to the bone, and he desperately tried to shake off the idea. No, he thought, it couldn’t be. He would never. Socorro was his best friend, and--

 _And Héctor was my best friend,_ de la Cruz’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, and for a moment Miguel forgot how to breathe. He heard his little sister speaking as though from very far away, heard the same doubt in the shaking voice.

“Cheque, please!” Socorro pleaded, taking a step towards her friend. “If it’s something I did-- I am so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to die, I-- I just want to go home! I wish you could come with me, if I could bring you back, I would! Please, say something! Anything! Cheque…!”

Ezequiel’s back hit the door, and he kept shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. His ribcage rose and fell in quick sharp breaths, if one could still call it breathing with no lungs involved; had he been alive, Miguel would have thought he was one step away from hyperventilating.

 _I can’t,_ he mouthed, and turned suddenly, reaching for the door knob.

“Hey! Someone stop him!”

“Cheque! No!”

Miguel leaped forward, but it was too late: Ezequiel had thrown the door open and the next moment he was outside, running down flights of stairs and then in the streets.

“Cheque! Come back!”

 _He was the fastest of the class,_ Socorro had said only a few days earlier, and Miguel was dismayed to realize she hadn’t been exaggerating at all: the boy was fast as a bullet and nimble,  too, weaving through the crowd of people walking outside without slowing down at all. It didn’t seem to matter that Miguel’s legs were much longer: he couldn’t catch up, and it was with a growing sense of helplessness that he watched him disappear in a side street.

“EZEQUIEL!”

When Miguel followed, he was already gone; there were several other streets and alleys he could have ran into, and he picked one out of despair, then another and another - until he found himself at a dead end, and skidded to a halt just on time to avoid slamming into a wall.

_No, no, no, no, no!_

Miguel turned to go back, to take another turn, but he hardly had enough to time take a step.

“Whoa!”

Something - no, someone - slammed into him, throwing him on the ground. There was a clattering sound of falling bones, and Miguel sat up with a groan to see a very familiar skull on the ground between his feet.

“Sorry, chamaco,” Héctor said. “I think we lost him.”

* * *

_I’m lost._

The thought may have made Ezequiel panic, if he weren’t too tired to even do that. By the time he stopped running in an empty alley he found his knees could no longer support him, and let himself sink against a wall. He hugged his knees and shut his eyes, but even so he kept seeing Socorro’s horrified face, and he kept hearing the accusations thrown at him.

_He doesn’t want to speak, is all. What are you trying to do? Keep her here with you?_

_Stop that! It’s not his fault!_

Except that maybe it was, because if he’d wanted to help her - _really_ wanted to help her - then maybe he could have managed to speak. Could it be that deep down he just didn’t want her to leave him behind? What kind of friend was he? She’d come to the Land of the Dead to find him, and he couldn’t even do that _one_ thing for her.

_Please, say something! Anything!_

I can’t, he’d wanted to say, but of course he couldn’t say anything at all. Things _happened_ when he tried to force his voice out: his throat would close up as though someone was strangling him, and his chest would feel tight, like a weight had been placed on it; in the end he would end up gasping for breath, and was the only noise to leave him. It was scary, it was painful, and it didn’t work - so he’d long since stopped trying. And it was all right with him, because he didn’t mind being voiceless. He had never felt like he was lacking… until now.

_You told me your vocal cords were damaged. Did you… was that a lie?_

It was. There had been no operation, no damage, no nothing. It had just seemed the easiest explanation to give. Something else had happened, something he didn’t quite recall but that was always there, lurking just beyond his grasp-  
_a closed door and it wouldn’t budge it was so dark and there were cries and I think it was me_ _  
_ -and he couldn’t explain it, didn’t _want_ to, because the more he focused on it the more he feared that he’d remember, and that it would be too much.

Ezequiel swallowed and leaned his forehead down on his knees, trying with all his might to keep himself from trembling, and his thoughts drifted to his mother. He hadn’t seen her for so long and he didn’t remember her face very well, but he remembered the way she used to smile, how she’d cover his face in kisses, and how she used to sing him to sleep. She often said that _the stuff_ had ruined her voice - _“But I am going to quit, cielito, very soon now, and we’ll be all better”_ \- and maybe it was rougher than it should have been, but Ezequiel still though it was the best voice in the world.

He remember how it sounded so well, because she sang Cielito Lindo to him every night and he’d memorized each word. He could pull it from the back of his mind and hear it in her voice again, as if listening to a record. It never failed to soothe him and it didn’t fail now, either.

 _De la Sierra Morena,_  
_cielito lindo, vienen bajando,_  
_Un par de ojitos negros,_  
_cielito lindo, de contrabando._  
_Ay, ay, ay, ay,_  
_Canta y no llores,_  
_Porque cantando se alegran,_ _  
cielito lindo, los corazones..._

Little by little, Ezequiel managed to stop shaking, and to clear his head some. Maybe he should head back, he thought, only to remember that it would be useless: the clerk had been wrong. He couldn’t give Socorro the blessing she needed, no matter how much he wished to. Besides, they were probably mad at him right now. They wouldn’t want him to be back. But he couldn’t stay there forever, either, wherever there was. He should ask someone for dire--

“Yip! Yip!”

A sudden yapping sound, along with a pull at his trousers, caused Ezequiel to wince and look up in alarm. Or rather, look down at the tiny, lime-green dog that was tugging at the fabric of his clothes. An alebrije, he guessed; he’d seen a few of those when he’d first arrived, but none of them that tiny. It looked like a… was it a chihuahua?

Ezequiel hesitated for a moment before reaching out for it, holding his palm up for the dog to sniff, but it just launched itself at him instead, causing him to hit his back against the wall with a startled gasp. The tiny dog stared at him for a moment, head tilted and paws on his chest, before giving another yap and licking his face. Ezequiel let out a silent snicker and reached for the dog, who nuzzled against his palm before jumping off him. It tugged at his clothes again, then took a few steps away and turned back to him.

“Ruff!”

… Wait. Was it trying to get him to follow it?

 _Alebrijes are spirit guides,_ the case worker who’d been looking after him had explained him. _They look after their chosen in the Land of the Living disguised as animals, and show their true form here. Not all are blessed with one. How and why they pick some of us is a mystery, but once they do, they will look out after their chosen ones and their families._

After a moment of hesitation, Ezequiel stood and took  a couple of steps towards the alebrije. The tiny dog wagged its tail, and gave another yap before it began trotting away, gradually picking up speed, and Ezequiel did his best to keep up. After all, he was lost already; all things considered, following a spirit guide - _his_ spirit guide? Had it just picked him? - seemed like a sensible thing to do.

* * *

"I can’t believe I lost an alebrije. How do you _lose_ a spirit guide?”

Ernesto de la Cruz paused at the outskirts of Shantytown, at a complete loss. He’d looked everywhere in that wretched place, and Diablo was simply not there. That made no sense: none of his alebrijes had ever, ever voluntarily strayed that far from him before. Not in life, when they were nothing then lap dogs, and certainly not in death.

“Still nothing?” he asked, glancing down. The other three were a few steps from him, nose to the ground. Then all three lifted their heads to look towards the brightly lit town, where the celebrations were in full swing, before looking back at him. Ernesto muttered a curse. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not going there unless I have to, today least of all!” he snapped.

So what if that stupid rat was missing? He was an alebrije, it wasn’t like he could _die._ Maybe it would turn up the next day, maybe the following week, and did it really matter at all?

Not too long ago - eight years to be absolutely exact - that would have been true. He would have worried, yes, enough to send somebody of the security to look for him, but not too much; he’d have assumed he’d be back. Now, however, the simple truth was that his alebrijes were all that he had left, and the one thing _no one_ could accuse him of having stolen. He had lost everything; the possibility of losing even more was too much to bear.

Was he lost, stuck somewhere? What if someone had found him and decided to take him? What if he’d simply decided to leave? In his coat’s pockets, his hands clenched into fists.

 _No, it can’t be. He’s my alebrije. He can’t just leave me behind,_ Ernesto thought, some desperation starting to creep in. He’d never heard of a spirit guide just deserting its chosen, but… could it happen? Had it happened? And if that was the case, how long before the other three did the same? How long before he was entirely, utterly on his own?

_I’d thought Héctor would never leave me on my own, but he did, didn’t he? I was not important enough to stick around then. I surely am not now._

A whining noise snapped Ernesto from his thoughts, and he looked down at his alebrijes for just a moment before he gave an exasperated groan and turned to march back to his shack to fetch a hat, a scarf - anything to disguise himself before he went looking for that stupid, _stupid_ dog.

“Fine. _Fine._ Wait for me here and I’ll--”

“Ruff! Ruff!” The sudden barking and howling caused him to stop in his tracks, and he turned to see his thee alebrijes darting ahead… to be joined, only moments later, by a fourth. They tumbled together on the ground, barking and snapping and wagging tails, and Ernesto heaved a sigh of relief.

_Well, false alarm. I can go back inside and drink myself into a stupor, as per my new yearly tradition. A drink with me. Wouldn’t miss it for the world._

“Where have you been?” he demanded to know, taking a step forward. It was his intention to sound angry, but of course Diablo immediately stood on his hind legs to greet him, and that made it almost impossible. With a sigh, Ernesto picked him up and let him settle in the crook of his arm. “Pull that one me again, and I’ll tie you to a post-- stop looking at me like that! We have talked about thi-- hey! Where are you going?”

Diablo didn’t seem to listen: he just barked and jumped off his arms again, trotting back the way he’d come for a few steps. Ernesto scowled and opened his mouth to yell at him to come back right now, but words died in his throat when he raised his gaze and realized that Diablo hadn’t come alone, after all.

Standing before him, eyes moving slowly from him to the alebrijes and then back to him, there was a boy.


	5. The Broken Bloodline

“As I told you _several_ times, there is no family of his in the Land of the Dead!”

“Look again! You scared the boy into fleeing and you will _fix_ this, or so help you!”

“Señora Rivera, please, put down that boot--”

“Then get to work on that devil box!”

“All right, all right! Please, stop hitting it!”

Chastised, the clerk began typing quickly on the keyboard. Miguel could only watch, holding his breath, and his heart sank when he shook his head. "Nothing. There is no relative of his that we know of who could bestow a blessing for him.”

“Not that you know of?” Héctor repeated.

“Well, yes. From what little data we have, this boy’s family line is a complete trainwreck. It’s like it was cursed or something, I swear. The first and last dead ancestor we could find is his great-grandmother, if I remember correctly, let me see... ah, yes. Maricruz del Rio. Born in 1921, died in childbirth in, err... 1942. Her daughter - the boy's grandmother, still alive and kicking - never knew her, and in the end she was forgotten."

"The first _and_ last? What do you mean by that?" Miguel asked, and the clerk shrugged.

"What I just said. Until the boy died, everyone else in her bloodline was still alive."

"What of her husband?" one of the twins asked, and the clerk shook his head.

"No husband. She was unwed. Like her own mother, it seems."

"Huh?"

The clerk shrugged and pressed a few more keys. "I did say she was also the _first_ of his family we could find. When she arrived and was registered, she said she was birthed anonymously in an orphanage in Santa Cecilia and left there. She was given a surname, but it certainly was not her mother's - much less the father’s - and so we can't look any further back. She was never adopted, either. As far as we can tell, the family line starts with her."

Miguel felt as though a very cold hand had grabbed his stomach and squeezed. That wasn't good, it wasn't good at all. With Ezequiel missing - unable or unwilling to give a blessing - and no family there to give it on his behalf, Socorro would--

_No. I won't let it happen. There has got to be a way!_

“Maybe Maricruz’s mother went on to marry,” he blurted out, slamming his hands down on the desk and causing the clerk to jerk back with a yelp. “Maybe she had another family or… or siblings who had children, and… and if they kept her memory alive, she could still be here! Or someone else from her family,” he tried. It was a long shot, but not so long it was impossible. At the moment, Miguel felt like he was drowning and ready to grab anything thrown at him to stay afloat.

The clerk didn’t dash his hopes, at least. “That’s a possibility, yes. But we have no idea who she was, or how she was called, so--”

“You said this Maricruz was born in Santa Cecilia,” Mamá Coco asked, cutting him off. “There is only one place I can think of where she may have been born and then left in - Our Lady of the Merciful Heart, was it?”

The clerk blinked, and went to check. “Let me see, listed place of birth… oh! Yes, that’s exactly it! That was a good guess. But how would that--”

“Of course it was a good guess! My girl only ever makes good guesses!” Héctor pointed out, placing a hand on her shoulder. She and Tía Victoria shared and amused glance that Héctor entirely missed.

 _Daddy’s girl,_ Tía Victoria mouthed at her mother, and Miguel smiled a little despite the urgency of the situation. He looked at Héctor.

“That place is still standing. It’s a hospital now, but they have kept the old archives. I know because we had an assignment about the town’s history once, and someone brought it up. Maybe, just maybe...”

“Ezequiel’s great-great-grandmother’s name might be there somewhere!” Tía Rosita cut in. “Oh, you little genius, you! Crouch down, I have to give you a good pinch on the cheek!”

Miguel laughed. “Maybe later,” he said, and turned to Héctor. “I know where the place is. Not far from home. I need to check the archive.”

“Right. It’s worth a shot. I’ll give you my blessing and--”

“No, don’t,” Miguel cut him off. “If I go back to the Land of the Living with my physical body, I won’t be able to get in. They won’t just let me waltz past them and into the archives.”

“But if you don’t go back physically, you won’t be able to touch anything,” Héctor pointed out.

“I have a plan about that. You come with me and take a few petals with you,” Miguel told him, and turned to the rest of the family. “Can you look for Ezequiel meanwhile?” he added. He felt for the boy and didn’t want to leave him all on his own, but to be entirely honest, the main reason why he wanted him found was Socorro. If all else failed, then their only chance to get her back home was to convince Ezequiel to try again before sunrise. He didn’t want to force his hand, but his little sister’s life was on the line.

“They will. I’ll be coming with you two,” Mamà Coco said, stepping beside him. “I know Santa Cecilia better than papà does, and I know its history better than you do. I might be of help. You just find the child, the poor thing must be so scared.”

Tìa Rosita nodded. “You can count on us.”

“Then we should get moving,” Tía Victoria said reasonably. “The night isn’t getting any younger. I suggest we split up and start asking around. Recently deceased, so young, clearly alone. Someone is bound to notice him.”

Miguel smiled, the weight on his stomach easing. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“I’m coming to look for him, too,” Socorro spoke up for the first time in several minutes. She looked pale, but she wasn’t crying anymore. “I’ve got to apologize to him.”

“Oh, pequeñita, you have nothing to apologize fo--”

“But I do!” she exclaimed, stepping forward. “I should have never doubted him! He’s my best friend! I was supposed to believe him!”

A shadow passed on Héctor’s face, there one moment and gone the next, but when he spoke again his voice was gentle. “It’s normal to have doubts, niña. You were upset and--”

“He wasn’t pretending, and I should have known it!” Socorro cut him off, and pointed towards the clerk. “That cabrón--”

“Socorro! Language!” Mamá Imelda warned.

“But he is! He said that Cheque didn’t speak at all since he came here, so he _can’t_ speak! He had no reason to _pretend,_ did he?” she added, and Miguel had to admit she had a point. If Cheque’s mutism, whatever the cause, had been erased with his death, then wouldn’t he have used his newfound voice before Socorro turned up?

“She has a point,” he said, trying to ignore the stab of shame for jumping to the worst possible conclusion so quickly. “Wherever he is, he must be terrified. He’s not supposed to be on his own. Whether he can give a blessing or not, we need to find him.”

“And we will,” Mamá Imelda said. “We have the petal he touched, and Pepita should be able to track him down. You just focus on finding out more about his family. We’re tight on time.”

Miguel nodded, and knelt next to his sister, placing both hands on her shoulders. Skeletal fingertips were already showing on both of them, and the same went for his sister. “We’re going to fix this, all right? We’ll be back soon and all will be well,” he added, not quite knowing whether he was talking to her or himself. Socorro nodded, her expression that of a general ready for war, and that helped somewhat. Miguel smiled and stood, and looked down at Dante.

“You stay with her until I get back,” he said, and Dante let out a woof through a mouthful of his own back leg that Miguel decided to take as a yes. He glanced at Héctor and Mamá Coco, who were both stuffing some petals in their pockets for later use.

“To the bridge,” Miguel said. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Ernesto’s first instinct as he saw the boy was to reach up and pull the hat down on his face, so that he wouldn’t be recognized. Except that his hand only met air, because he was an _idiot_ and had left the hat behind, as well as the scarf. His face was entirely uncovered.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone recognized him: that had happened a few times in the past years, but it had only been a problem until he’d been able to lose his pursuers - his alebrijes always made for good diversions - and return, unnoticed, to Shantytown. Being seen there was another matter entirely, because it meant that even that wretched place - still so imbued with the memory of the forgotten, so to speak, that no one dared come close - would no longer be safe for him to be.

Any moment now the brat would run away, screaming his head off, and then it would be only a matter of time before… wait. What was he doing?

Ernesto frowned in confusion when the boy took a whiteboard clipped to his belt and wrote something on it with a black marker before holding it up.

ARE THEY YOURS?, it read.

“Wha…?” Ernesto began, then his gaze fell on his alebrijes, and he nodded. “Er… sí?” he replied, and the boy wrote something else.

CAN I PET THEM?

He didn’t know, Ernesto realized. That child had _no idea_ who he was looking at, and that came as the biggest relief he could remember feeling. The irony of it - he used to be disappointed whenever someone did _not_ recognize him - wasn’t lost to him, but at the moment he could hardly bring himself to care. He could still get that sorted out, send the boy his way without him ever knowing who he had met, and with some luck he’d forget about him soon enough. Children were forgetful little things.

_Not all of them, though. Héctor’s brat remembered him too well, and for too long._

Ernesto kept himself from scowling at the thought, and smiled down at the boy. “Sure. They love the attention,” he said, and the boy smiled back - when had it been last time anybody had smiled at him? - before clipping the whiteboard to his belt and kneeling, holding his hands out to beckon them closer.

The dogs were on him in a moment, all wagging tails and lolling tongues, and Ernesto looked up to make sure no one was nearby. Last thing he needed was somebody who _would_ recognize him to stumble on the scene, and what would they think then? Probably that Ernesto de la Cruz - murderer, fake, you name it - had used his dogs to abduct a child for some dark reason; on the list of Things He Did Not Need, that was rather close to the first place. To his relief, there was no one in sight.

… Wait. Did that boy just wander all the way there on his own?

_If he did, someone may be looking for him._

Ernesto looked down at the boy again; he was trying to hold all four dogs to his chest at the same time, grinning like mad. He crouched down. “What are you doing here, niño? Are you lost?” he asked, uttering the longest sentence he’d spoken to another soul for the past several years. Not counting his alebrijes, of course.

The boy looked up at him, and his smile faded. He put the dogs down and reached to take the whiteboard again, causing Ernesto to frown. “Is that really necessary?” he asked, only to blink then the boy reached for his throat and then shook his head. “Oh. Can’t talk?”

Another nod, and then he was writing on the whiteboard. I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM. I FOLLOWED THE DOG. I THOUGHT THAT MAYBE IT WAS MY ALEBRIJE.

Ernesto held back a scoff, and shot a glare at Diablo for dragging that problem all the way to his doorstep, or almost. The alebrije looked back at him with a wagging tail, absolutely unbothered. “I’m afraid these are _my_ alebrijes, niño. If you had one, it certainly would have come to you by no-- wait. How long have you been dead?”

A WEEK. I THINK.

 _“A week?”_ Ernesto blurted out. Well, that explained why he hadn’t recognized him. He was… younger than most new arrivals, to be sure. A dead child wasn’t such a common occurence nowadays. Unaware of his thoughts, the boy was scribbling again.

THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT. I WAS ALIVE ONE MOMENT AND DEAD THE NEXT.

“That must have been confusing. A sudden death usually is,” Ernesto found himself saying. After all, he would know. He’d died with the last note of a song still on his lips. “Shouldn’t you be with… whoever is looking after you?”

The boy’s gaze darkened, and he shook his head. Ernesto expected him to add something, write something, but he did not. He just stared at the ground like he saw something there that Ernesto couldn’t, and he seemed to deflate, his shoulders dropping.

Wait. Wait a minute. “... Is _anyone_ looking after you at all?”

His next words were written with a shaky hand.

I DON’T THINK THEY WANT ME ANYMORE.

“Why wouldn’t they--”

THEY’RE MAD AT ME, he wrote. I WAS SUPPOSED TO GIVE A BLESSING, BUT CAN’T.

Wait, what? “A blessing? Is there _another_ living soul in the Land of the Dead right now?” Ernesto blurted out, incredulous. What _was_ it with living people and stealing from graves? All right, so maybe he shouldn’t be the one to talk about not stealing from the dead, but at least he’d had the decency to do so before Héctor was buried. If he was buried. Maybe they’d put his nameless body in a pauper’s grave? He’d been in a hurry to leave Mexico City after his death, and had never tried to find out what had become of it.

Unaware of his thoughts, the boy nodded and looked down, utterly dejected. Ernesto reached to put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I don’t think it’s a problem. If you can’t give a blessing, anybody from your family can do that in your name. You just need to go back… wherever you came from, without mentioning me if you can help it, and ask--” he trailed off when the boy shook his head, and he frowned.

“Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been dead for a while longer than you have. I know how these things work. If I tell you that a family member--” he began, only to trail off when the boy held up the whiteboard.

NO FAMILY.

“... Ah. Now _that_ could be a problem,” Ernesto admitted. He could already feel a headache starting to build up in his skull. His alebrijes slunk closer to the boy, whining softly, before looking up at him with their tried and tested Puppy Dog Eyes. Ernesto gave them an unimpressed look and shook his head. The Puppy Dog Eyes intensified, and maybe he could have withstood that, too. But then the boy made a sniffling noise, quite a feat without a nose, and Ernesto groaned, causing his alebrijes to wag their tails again.

 _This is not my problem. Why are you going all_ spirit guide _on me all of a sudden?_

But in the end, he knew all too well his alebrijes’ stubbornness and the boy’s misery were only part the reason for what he said next. The truth was that he had been entirely alone for eight long, _long_ years. What harm could some human company do? Getting _someone_ to look at him with something different from disgust once again, or look at him at all?

“All right. All right,” he muttered, standing up. “Let’s see if there is a way to get this sorted, sí? Just… let’s go inside,” he added, gesturing towards the shacks behind him. He’d rather not be out there in plain sight for long  if he could help it, and it would be good to have some time to convince him to keep his mouth shut - or rather, his marker in his pocket - about ever being there at all before he left. _If_ he left: it was looking like he may have nowhere to go.

In the back of his mind, he was mildly thankful for his decision to stick most of the empty bottles he had lying around in a closet that morning, after he’d tripped on one. His current abode was pathetic enough without his unexpected guest having to see those.

Unaware of his musings, the boy looked at him, clearly weighing his options, and seemed to come to the conclusion that the alternative - wandering alone in the Land of the Dead - wasn’t an alternative at all. He stood, and wrote on his whiteboard: I’M CHEQUE.

Well, at least this one wasn’t claiming to be his great-great-grandson or anything equally outlandish. Despite the beginning of a headache, Ernesto smiled. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anybody, let alone without loathing being involved. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend he was meeting one of his fans all over again. Except that, of course, he couldn’t give his real name. Better safe than sorry and all that.

He had to come up with something else, and it wasn’t too hard. When he’d been a child his mother used to call him Ernestito, Tito for short, but he’d never been fond on that. His father sometimes called him Neto, from his first attempts at pronouncing his own name. It had stuck for some time and Héctor had used it as well when they were still boys, but it had been such a long, long time ago. It was safe to use now.

“Nice to meet you, Cheque,” he finally said. “I’m Neto. Now come in, and tell me everything.”

* * *

“Do you think we should pick up your boyfriend on the way?”

“He’s been my husband for some eighty-five years now, papá.”

“Hey, it all happened so quickly. Give a guy some time.”

Mamá Coco rolled her eyes before giving Miguel a sideways glance that said, loud and clear, _can you believe him?_

It took Miguel some effort not to laugh. It was very, very easy to guess that was far from the first time that happened. “Give him another decade or two,” he said as they left the cemetery and began heading down the street. The marigold petals shone beneath them, and skeletons were walking in groups, talking amongst themselves as they headed to their homes, where their ofrendas and offerings waited.

“Actually, he’s right. There is no reason for Papá Julio to stay there,” Miguel added. The crossing agents had been instructed not to let Ezequiel through and take him in custody if he tried to cross, so it was very unlikely he’d make it to the ofrenda that night. And plus, he’d been running away from them; he had no reason to go to their place.

Mamá Coco nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll stop at home and explain him everything. We’ll catch up with you at the hospital - you know where it is, don’t you, dear?”

“Of course. We’ll get in and make our way to the archives,” Miguel replied, and Mamá Coco nodded before turning to go towards home.

“Look both ways before crossing the street!” Héctor yelled after her, causing her to laugh without turning. “Ah, kids. Always running around,” he muttered, giving Miguel a lopsided grin. Still, it was short-lived; the moment Mamá Coco was gone from sight, he let out a sigh. “I really hope we can find something. Can’t really count on the boy, can we?”

Miguel’s smile faded as well as they resumed moving. “I’m sure the others will be able to find him. Pepita is pretty good at tracking down people. She found me twice last time.”

“Not of much use if he won’t talk, though.”

“No. But we only have one shot at finding at least _some_ dead guy he’s related to. If that doesn’t work, then… no, it must work. There is no alternative. Ezequiel can’t talk.”

Héctor’s gaze turned to him, uncharacteristically serious. “Can’t, or won’t.”

“He can’t. Socorro was right - if he’d found his voice again after dying, he’d have used it before she showed up. I… I think,” Miguel added, unable to keep the certainty in his voice all the way through, and of course Héctor picked that up.

“Maybe he _is_ trying to keep her from going home. So that she’s stuck with him.”

“He would never.” _Not knowingly, at least._ “He’s her best friend.”

“That what I thought, too, but--”

“Look, I know it looks bad, but he and Socorro grew up toge--”

“So did we, and look how well--”

“He’s not _Ernesto,_ Héctor.”

Miguel hadn’t meant his remark to sound as harsh as it had come out, and he immediately shut his mouth when Héctor stiffened… and then let out a laugh before he resumed walking. “Heh! Want to know something funny, chamaco?”

“You still calling me _chamaco_ now that I’m half an inch taller than you _is_ pretty funny.”

Héctor scoffed, and gave him a light smack in the arm. “You’re not!”

“Am too!”

“A quarter of an inch tops. And I bet your shoes have thicker soles than mine.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Papá Héctor,” Miguel quipped, and there was another laugh.

“Fine, fine. But no, the funny thing is, this is the first time I think of Ernesto in years.”

Miguel frowned. He had no clue what had become of him. “Was he arrested, or…?”

“No, though not for lack of trying. He’s still hiding somewhere,” Héctor replied, and shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t really matter. He can’t do a thing to harm our familia again. I’d be happy to go back to not thinking about him at all.”

“Makes two of us,” Miguel agreed, and kept walking, heading for the hospital that had once been an orphanage - where Ezequiel del Rio’s great-grandmother had been left as a baby. Neither of them said one more word about Ernesto de la Cruz but, if the expression on Héctor’s face was of any indication, he was failing to entirely keep him out of his thoughts.

* * *

“So, let me see if I got this right. Your friend stole from your grave-- I _get it_ that she didn’t mean to, no need to write that again. She got herself cursed and you’re the only one who can send her back, but you can’t do it and now her family is mad at you. Is that it?”

Looking up from his mug of cocoa - it was by far the _worst_ cocoa he’d ever had, but it also seemed to be the last Neto had in the shack and he’d been nice to give it to him, so he didn’t want to make it go to waste - Ezequiel nodded slowly. The thought he’d failed to do the one thing Socorro needed from him hurt, and it was even worse when he thought of how ready her family had been to take him in. He’d let them _all_ down. How could they not be mad?

I’M USELESS, he wrote on the whiteboard, and took another sip.

Neto sighed before leaning back on his chair and reaching for a bottle on the table between them. Seeing people drinking made Ezequiel feel skittish, but Neto had been kind and, as long as it was not _the stuff,_ he could ignore it. “Well, look at it this way. You tried your best, didn’t you?”

Truth be told he hadn’t had a chance to try at at all, but did it matter? Ezequiel knew it couldn’t work, like he knew a missing limb won’t grow back. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to… but the thought that he hadn’t _tried_ kept gnawing at him. He just nodded, eyes on the mug, doing his best to ignore it and utterly failing at it.

“Then you’re fine. At least you tried. It’s more than can be said of _some_ friends who’ll leave you to fend for yourself,” he said. He sounded bitter, but most of all he sounded tired. He shrugged at his questioning look. “Long story,” was all he said, and brought the bottle to his mouth. Ezequiel sighed, and wiped the whiteboard with his sleeve to write on it again.

I SHOULD GO BACK AND TRY AGAIN. THE RIVERAS WERE NICE TO ME, AND I

He had no time to write anything more: one moment after Neto’s eyes fell on the whiteboard there was a choking noise and a spray of tequila, and the bottle fell on the ground with a clatter, spilling its remaining contents on the floor. Ezequiel reared back, blinking quickly, while Neto coughed, almost bent in two on the table. He looked up at him after a few moments with wide eyes, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“The-- _hack!_ The Riveras? You don’t mean the Riveras of Santa Cecilia, do you?”

Taken aback, Ezequiel nodded and wrote quickly. YOU KNOW THEM?

“No,” Neto replied without missing a beat. “Never heard of them in my life. I didn’t know a Rivera family existed. Or a place called Santa Cecilia. Is it nice this time of the year?”

… Really now? How dumb did he think he was? Ezequiel gave him an unimpressed look before writing his retort.

I WASN’T BORN THIS MORNING.

“But you _did_ die last week.”

THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE!

Neto sighed, and reached up to rub his temples. “Fine. Fine. I have heard of the Riveras. So… wait. Is it one of theirs who got herself cursed? This Socorro?” he asked, and Ezequiel nodded. Neto leaned forward. “And what sort of relation does she have to Miguel Rivera?”

HE’S SOCORRO’S BIG BROTHER. YOU KNOW HIM?

“Oh, we have met,” Neto muttered, his voice lower, and he seemed lost in thought for a few moments before he gave an effortless smile. “And you are _the only one_ who can give the blessing to send her home. No family at all. Now that’s unfortunate,” he added, and stood. “Well, you are right to think they are mad at you. They become downright furious when someone messes with a member of their family. No one is more important in their eyes.”

 _They said I would be part of their family, too,_ Ezequiel wanted to say, but his fingers suddenly felt too numb to write. Neto walked around the table, put a hand on his shoulder.

“You were lucky not to end up in the claws of their alebrije. You may have seen it - giant winged jaguar, quite vicious… no? Well, here’s hoping they won’t set it on you.”

Ezequiel no longer had a stomach, but it still felt as though it had just clenched at the thought. Would they really be mad enough to set an alebrije on him? He looked up at Neto, eyes wide, and was met with a sympathetic smile.

“You can hide here if you’d like. It may be best to avoid them for some time. The little guys and I wouldn’t mind some company,” he added, gesturing towards the mattress where his tiny alebrijes were sleeping in a heap, a limb occasionally twitching as though they were dreaming of running.

SOCORRO IS MY BEST FRIEND. SHE WOULDN’T LET THEM HURT ME, he wrote, but his hand shook, because he wasn’t so sure anymore. What if she really believed he was lying, trying to keep her there? If he had that nagging doubt himself, how could she not? The thought chilled him to the marrow.

Neto sighed. “Look at you, thinking your friend will always stick with you, no matter the odds. I was like that when I was your age, too. I was wrong,” he added, then brightened, pulling his hand away. “But who knows, perhaps you’re not. Maybe you’ll be fine if you give the Riveras some time to get over their anger. Stay for the night, and you can go look for them in the morning to try again with the blessing. Late morning. Make it noon. What do you think?”

Some of the dread that had gripped Ezequiel’s chest melted away, and he managed to smile back at Neto with a nod. That sounded like a good idea: he really didn’t want to face them again while they were angry and, as far as he could tell, whether he tried again now or the next day made no difference at all.

Because as much as it scared him he _had_ to try, he couldn’t leave Socorro hanging. He didn’t think he could do it, but at least he could try his hardest. Maybe they would believe him, then, and they would want him back.

_And Socorro would stay with me, too, and it won’t be my fault if I try and just can't do it._

Part of him was hoping for that outcome, and the sense of shame - how could he _hope_ for that to happen? - was a weight on his chest he forced himself to ignore. Unaware of his thoughts Neto laughed, sounding absolutely delighted.

“Well then, it’s settled! You must be tired, my boy. Go rest, if you can get the dogs to yield some space,” he added, gesturing towards the mattress.

As much as he wanted to curl up with the dogs, Ezequiel hesitated. WHAT ABOUT YOU?

“The chair will do just fine,” Neto replied, and picked up the bottle he’d dropped - there was some tequila left in it, by the sound of it - before he sat down, putting his feet up on the table. “I insist. You’re the guest of honor here. Get some sleep, you must be exhausted.”

He wasn’t that tired - he didn’t even think he needed sleep to function anymore, really - but he went to curl up with the dogs all the same. They snuggled close to him and that felt really nice, almost as soothing as recalling her mother’s voice. Ezequiel closed his eyes and proceeded to do just that, letting it play in the back of his mind.

 _Pájaro que abandona_  
_Cielito lindo, su primer nido_  
_Vuelve y lo halla ocupado_ _  
Cielito lindo, bien merecido..._

Focused as he was on that, he failed to hear Neto quietly humming to himself - and he failed to see how his smile had turned into a wide, almost manic grin as he lifted the bottle towards boarded-up window in a mock toast.  

“Salud, old friend. You’ll get to be with _this_ Coco as much as you want,” he muttered, too quietly to be heard, and emptied the bottle in one gulp.


	6. The Shattered Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things mentioned in this chapter are based on [this other thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092969) I wrote, but you don't need to read that one to understand what's going on here.

“Pepita, this is Socorro. Socorro, this is… Socorro?”

For a moment, Imelda worried that the girl was going to be scream, or faint, or anything equally inconvenient. Instead she stared up at Pepita, head tilted back and mouth hanging open for a few more moments, before she turned to her.

“This is your alebrije?” she asked, her voice full of unconcealed wonder. Imelda couldn’t hold back a small smile.

_ She  _ does _ look like Coco when she was her age. How did I not notice it before? _

“Yes. We do consider her a family alebrije, though,” Imelda said. Pepita lowered herself enough to give Socorro a sniff, and she laughed, reaching to stroke her muzzle. The alebrije let out a sound that sounded suspiciously like a purr deep in her chest before Imelda cleared her throat and she sat up again, turning her full attention back to her.

“Can she really find Cheque?” Socorro asked, hope plain in her voice. She did not know yet if she would live past sunrise, but her friend was the first thought on her mind.

It was the same kind of hope she’d heard in Coco’s when she asked, again and again, if her papá would return soon. It caused something in Imelda’s chest cavity - something that was no longer there - to tighten, and she forced herself to ignore it. Back in life, she’d been powerless to end her daughter’s plight by bringing her father back to her. Now, however, she knew exactly what she had to do.

I _ f lost return to Socorro, _ the writing in the photo said, and she was going to do just that.

“She is the best one for the job,” she reassured Socorro. The rest of the family had split up to look for the boy, too, in case he’d wandered someplace where Pepita couldn’t follow or managed to leave no trail, but she was their best bet. “I’m sure he’ll come with us once you talk to him,” she added, and Socorro bit her lower lip.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice smaller. “It was my fault that he--”

“No,” Imelda, cut her off, more sharply than she’d meant to, and Socorro winced. Making an effort to soften her voice, she crouched in front of her. Without Miguel by her side to reassure her, she somehow looked even younger; Óscar and Felipe had been about her age when their mother had died, and Imelda had to look after them on her own, only a girl herself. She took her great-great-granddaughter's hand, whose fingers were almost entirely skeletal now, and gave it a squeeze.

“Listen to me. There will be a lot of responsibilities in your life - to your family, to your friends, to everyone you care about. It’s a weight we all have to carry, so don’t make it heavier than it should be,” she added. “What happened to your friend was not your fault. It is not  _ your _ weight to carry. Don’t shoulder more than you can bear - it will do no good to either of you. Ezequiel is running scared. So if you have a responsibility now, it’s to keep a cool head and help me take him home. Are you ready to do that?”

Socorro stared at her for a moment, looking almost lost, then she straightened herself like a soldier on attention, pressing her lips together. “Yes. I can do that,” she said, and Imelda smiled.

“Now that’s what I want to hear. Let Pepita smell the petal he touched.”

Socorro didn’t need to be told twice: she held it up in front of Pepita’s massive muzzle, standing on her toes to do so. The alebrije lowered her head to sniff at it for a couple of moments before she turned to sniff at the pavement. That, too, only took  few instants; then Pepita blew on the ground and there they were, a boy’s footprints glowing blue on the cobblestones.

They had a trail, and they would follow it wherever it led.

* * *

“Wait. Where’s the stream?”

“Huh?”

“Are you sure we’re going the right way? There used to be a stream,” Héctor found himself muttering, looking around. Most of what he was seeing was new, but he was rather certain that was a spot where the stream had been running, once. He’d spent so much time there as a boy, fishing or just fooling around, or practicing music. Skipping stones, too - Ernesto always showed off when it came to skipping stones in the water, until Imelda had beaten him by several skips and shut him up for good. He’d sulked for a while, then laughed it off. He  _ always  _ laughed it all off in the end; it was something they had in common as kids, two idiots who took nothing seriously and thought they could take on the world, and win. 

“Oh, right, that,” Miguel was saying, unaware of his thoughts. “They built the road over it.”

“Ah,” Héctor said, unable to keep some sadness from his voice. He had good memories of that place, with only a couple of exceptions. One time he’d been attacked by a rabid coyote and he’d been terrified, trying to keep it away with a stick while knowing that one bite would spell his doom. If not for Ernesto, who’d rained stones down on the snarling animal to give him time to get away, he would have probably been bitten and died a painful death. The memory felt bitter, now: he’d saved his life, only to take it away less than ten years later.

And before that there had been the flood, of course; a sudden rainstorm had turned the stream and the nearby mine shaft into a deadly trap, with him and Ernesto caught in the middle. They had almost drowned. Hector had been… how old? Eight, or something like it. Ernesto had been twelve and much bigger, but somehow he was the one who almost hadn’t made it. He’d stopped breathing for a minute, too, and Héctor remembered well the dawning panic, the crushing guilt that Socorro must be feeling now. Ernesto had stayed unconscious for three days, and when he’d woken up he’d said… what  _ had  _ he said?

_ Héctor? I dreamed that I was dead. I was trapped under the bell. _

Had there been any skin on his bones, Héctor was certain it would have broken into goosebumps; the sensation was precisely the same. Back then, those words had made no sense and even Ernesto, later, hadn’t remembered uttering them. Héctor had forgotten, too, until now. He wished things had stayed that way, that he’d just kept Ernesto out of his mind, both versions of him he’d known - the boy he’d been, gone just like the stream, and the murderer he’d turned into. He didn’t know how to reconcile those. He didn’t want to.

_ He never cared, or he did at one point and then not anymore. I don’t know which is worse. _

“I mean, the stream is not gone,” Miguel added. “Just for this stretch. It comes back to the surface further on. You didn’t take a very good look at the town yet, did you?”

“Not really, no. With one night a year to visit, I wanted to spend as much of it as possible at home,” Héctor replied, and forced himself to look away from there the stream had been. They resumed walking quickly, and Héctor kept looking around. He could still see the town he’d been born and lived in beneath all that was new, but so much had changed. Would it feel less jarring if he’d been there to witness the changes? How different would his life have been if Ernesto had drowned that day?

_ Well, I might have died of rabies a decade earlier than I did of poison, for one. _

The thought was almost funny, it its own morbid way, and took away some of the bitterness that threatened to resurface after so long. Whatever had happened was in the past. He should just focus on what mattered now, and that was his family; the only thing that should be on his mind that night was finding someone who could give little Socorro the blessing she needed to return home.

* * *

“That was amazing! Can we fly on the way back too? Please? Cheque would love it!”

Socorro was still grinning when she slid down Pepita’s wing - a lot less gracefully than Mamá Imelda did, but without smashing face first on the ground, like Dante did a moment later. Still, her smile died down when she looked ahead to see the place Pepita had led them to. It looked like an improvised settlement on what looked like a dock, with none of the light and bustle she had seen so far. There were a lot of run-down shacks, some of them just ruins of mixed materials, and not a soul in sight. It looked sad, the way only abandoned places do. 

Was Cheque really there, all alone? Socorro looked up to see that Mamá Imelda was staring at the place with a somber expression, too. “Shantytown of all places,” she muttered. “This is where those who were being forgotten came to wait for their Final Death.”

The words were ominous enough to send a chill up Socorro’s spine, but she forced herself to keep a cool head, just as Mamá Imelda had told her to. Miguel had mentioned to her what the Final Death was, but that wouldn’t happen to Cheque only because he’d wandered there. He was still remembered in the Land of the Living, and he would be for a long time to come. Socorro would make sure of it. “And they don’t anymore?” she asked instead, and the somber expression on Mamá Imelda’s face seemed to soften a bit. 

“No, not anymore. That’s where they go now,” she said, turning to gesture at a huge mansion up a hill. “A far better place to spend one’s last years. Everyone is forgotten, eventually.”

“And what happens after that?”

“No one knows.”

“A friend in school told me that her papá told her that his abuelita told him that when their memory is gone, they come back to the Land of the Living to make new memories,” Socorro informed her, and her great-great-grandmother gave a small smile.

“That is comforting theory,” she conceded before turning to Pepita. “But not our concern at the moment. Pepita, can you tell where the boy is?”

The alebrije let out a noise that was suspiciously close to a purr, though loud as a small ending, and her nose was back to the ground the next moment. She snuffled at the ground, taking a few steps forward. Socorro followed, brought her hands up around her mouth, and drew in a deep breath to call out for Cheque… but she had no time to, because suddenly the purring noise turned into something else - a deep, seething  _ growl. _

“Pepita, what is it? Pepita!” Mamá Imelda’s voice sounded confused one moment, alarmed the next, and Socorro was pulled back. She stared up with wide eyes as Pepita looked ahead towards the shacks ahead, her entire body tense and eyes flashing in anger, tail furiously whipping the air, a snarl coiled at the back of her throat. Suddenly, the beautiful alebrije she’d climbed on without fear was the stuff of nightmares. Somewhere behind her, Socorro heard Dante whimpering. 

“Who is it?” Mamá Imelda spoke, or tried to, because the next moment her voice was covered by roar and suddenly Pepita was off, huge paws pounding on the docks.

“No! Wait!” Socorro cried out and tried to run, but Mamá Imelda held her back. 

“Stay where you are,” she said. “You’re not dead and you could be hurt. Dante, you make sure she stays here, or so help both of us!” 

With an apologetic look, Dante took the back of Socorro’s shirt in his jaws and braced himself to keep her there if she try to follow. Overwhelmed by what was going on, she hardly even noticed. “But Cheque--”

“She’s not after him,” was the only reply she got, and then Mamá Imelda was running after her alebrije and leaving her to stand there, numbly wondered exactly what was happening. Then she looked down, and noticed something she that had escaped her, but not Mamá Imelda: on the ground there was more than one set of glowing prints. There were tiny pawprints, the shoe prints of a child… and those of an adult.

* * *

He’d fallen asleep, and dreamed of the coyote for the first time in decades.

He’d heard before he’d seen it, beyond the last few trees at the stream’s bank, and the sound alone had been enough to tell him that the beast was rabid, it had to be. His first thought had been to turn back the way he’d come, fast, and fetch some armed men to find and kill it before it bit someone. But then something else had reached him, a voice he’d known all too well, and suddenly that was not an option anymore.

“No! Stay back! I mean it! I’m a champion at… at… hitting things with sticks!”

What had happened next would stay somewhat murky in Ernesto de la Cruz’s memory. He wouldn’t quite remember picking up rocks, nor rushing towards the bank, but he must have done so because then he was at the stream, on top of a small slope, with several rocks cradled in one arm and the largest one he could find in his other hand. 

Héctor had been right below him, a stick held in shaky hands between him and a snarling, foaming coyote. The beast had snapped its jaws, making spittle fly, and that was when the first rock had struck it on a shoulder, hard enough to make it recoil and yelp. Héctor had looked up, fear and surprise making his eyes look huge. “Neto!”

“Get up here!” Ernesto would remember yelling before throwing another stone and then another, keeping the furious coyote at bay while Héctor dropped the stick and scrambled up the slope. But soon he’d ran out of rocks to throw, too soon, and Héctor hadn’t reached him yet, and the coyote had howled and charged.  _ One bite, _ he’d remember thinking, one bite and it would be over.

He’d held out his hand to grab Héctor by the collar of his shirt and pulling him up had been  _ easy,  _ thank God, scrawny as he was. He’d thrown him aside on solid ground, but by then the coyote had been almost on top, too, and there had been no time for Ernesto to think: he could only throw a kick, all his strength behind it, and pray it’d work. 

_ Please don’t let it bite me, please please don’t bite me. _

It hadn’t bitten him. There had been the sound of something snapping in the beast’s chest, and it had tumbled back down at the stream’s bank, yelping and howling and snapping its jaws. He and Héctor had ran away as fast as they could without wasting a moment to look back, but that had been the end. When armed men came for the coyote they found it at the same spot where it had fallen, its last snarl frozen in death. Except...

_ Except that I can still hear it why do I still hear it growling why do I still hear-- _

“Ruff! Ruff!”

_ Thud. _

_ Crash. _

“Ouch! What the--?” Awareness returned in a rush, hitting him like a train. He realized several things at once - that he’d fallen off the chair, that his head hurt, that his alebrijes were barking frantically, that the boy was kneeling next to him and pulling at the sleeve of his coat - and none of it made the slightest amount of sense. Then the growl came again, this time closer to a roar and unmistakably real. He’d been at the receiving end of that before and it  _ did not _ come from a coyote.

_ You were lucky not to end up in the claws of their alebrije. You may have seen it - giant winged jaguar, quite vicious… no? Well, here’s hoping they won’t set it on you. _

… Wait, had they  _ really _ done that? Set that beast on a child? He hadn’t really thought for a moment that they would do that. Or had that  _ thing _ caught his scent instead? Did it think he was a threat to the boy?

The roar turned into thunder, and something slammed against the wall of the shack, causing it to shake and part of a wall, made of tin, to start bending. Ernesto found his feet the next moment, his head pounding but his mind clear. He was dimly aware of the boy’s presence, of how he was clinging to his coat in obvious terror, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flashes of lime green he could see through the cracks opening in the wall. Then he saw one eye, that eye saw him, and the beast roared again.

Ernesto had dreaded seeing those eyes again. He’d expected to be terrified should it ever happen, but he was not. He felt calm in a way he hadn’t been since the moment he’d checked for Héctor’s pulse to find none - a sort of calm that was a lot like being encased in ice. It was what came with the knowledge that there could be no more time for second guesses, no time to be afraid because he couldn’t  _ afford  _ to be, because keeping a cool head was a matter of survival. The deed was done, the line in the sand had been crossed, and there was no way to go but forward. He’d take the chance, and see it through.

_ Very well. It was bound to happen, wasn’t it? I couldn’t hide forever. The Riveras will get me and they’ll do what they will with me, but not until dawn. Not until it’s too late for their brat, and who’ll be laughing then? I don’t have anything to lose anymore, but they do. They will. _

There was more snarling, more blows against the wall. Claws gouged deep marks on wood and skittered over metal; then someone was shouting, trying to be heard over the growls. Why, wasn’t it Imelda Rivera herself… and Cheque had heard her, too, even if he couldn’t catch the words, because he clung closer and looked up at him in terror and pure disbelief. 

_ They did it, they set their alebrije on me, _ those eyes told him.

‘Socorro would never let them hurt me’, he had written no more than a hour earlier, but he clearly was not so sure anymore. For a moment Ernesto almost felt sorry. Almost, because it made things easier for him, so he certainly wasn’t going to argue there. He had nothing to gain from letting Cheque know that it was probably _him_ the alebrije was trying to get its claws on; it would force him to explain why, and he’d rather not do it. 

“We need to get you somewhere safe. Follow me and be quiet,” Ernesto said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and paused when his brain caught up. He looked down to see that some of the terror on the boy’s face had faded, replaced with a rather unimpressed look.

“... You know what I mean,” he muttered, and reached down to open a trapdoor he’d built on the shack’s floor. It opened a scant meter above the water. He turned to his alebrijes. “As we practiced. Take the long way around and meet me at the usual spot,” he ordered. 

They jumped through the trapdoor without a moment’s hesitation to start swimming away, and Ernesto grabbed two heavy metal disks he always kept near the trapdoor. They had been part of some sort of contraption once, but now their only use was to weight him down and allow him to walk deep underwater, where no one could find him and no alebrije could follow his trail. He put one in each pocket of the coat and took the boys in his arms. He clung to him for dear life. Afterlife. Whichever. 

"It will be alright. Don't panic and let me handle this. Remember that you don't need to breathe," he added. There was another terrible blow, the creaking sound of a wall starting to entirely give in, and for a moment he could hear Imelda’s voice clearly -  _ “... Enough, I said  _ enough, _ stop this now and let me--!” _ \- but then he let himself fall into the water, and for a time there was only silence.

* * *

Miguel wasn’t too surprised to find that the hospital was full of dead people, too.

There was a large ofrenda with dozens of photos on it in the main all, probably all deceased relatives of those who were hospitalized, and said deceased were wandering from room to room, looking for their family members. It was far from a quiet search, full of laughs and ‘come over, I found him!’ or ‘Armando, I think this is  _ your _ sister-in-law!’. Watching the hospital staff going on with their duties without seeing any of it was rather surreal.

“Which way to the archive?” Papá Julio asked. He and Mamá Coco had joined them again right outside the hospital, and they had walked in along with the visiting dead. 

“Probably in the basement or something like it? That’s where we’d find it in a movie, anyway,” Miguel said, and was about to suggest they should head downstairs when a man’s voice suddenly rose in a deafening cry of happiness.

“SHE’S DEAD! FINALLY! Sorry, sorry! Let me through, I need to cross the bridge again - she’s dead! MY WIFE JUST DIED!”

All the dead present erupted in cheers as a rather stout skeleton with a beard shot out of a room and began running down the corridor to their left, and Héctor was probably the loudest.

“Congrats, amigo!”

“Go sweep her off her feet, tiger!”

“Hahah! You bet I will! I’m coming, mi amor!” the guy laughed, and ran past them to the exit, nearly barrelling into Papá Julio. Mamá Coco janked him aside just on time, and laughed. 

“Did  _ you _ react like that when I died?”

Papá Julio smiled sheepishly, taking off his hat. “I may have been a bit louder,” he admitted. 

“Awww,” Miguel and Héctor muttered at the same time, grinning, and it was easy to tell Papá Julio would have blushed if he’d still been able to.

“I think  _ he _ was even louder,” he muttered, tilting his head towards Héctor. His grin widened. 

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted, and put a hand on Mamá Coco’s shoulder before turning back to Miguel and sobering up. “All right. The archive?”

“I think it’s downstairs. Let’s go.”

They reached the basement easily, because none of the personnel could see them, nor could the security cameras… and, before long, they found what they were looking for: an old wooden door with a brass plaque on it reading simply ‘Archive 1’. Right below, someone had added ‘1812 - 1957’ with a simple black marker. 

“Do you think it’s this one?” Miguel asked, and Mamá Coco nodded. 

“Most likely. This building stopped operating as an orphanage in 1957, I am sure of it.”

The door was probably locked, but it hardly mattered to them at the moment. A simple step through it, and they were inside… and it was completely dark. 

“I hope there is a light switch somewhere.”

“I hope it works.”

“Well, we’re gonna find out in a minute. I need one of you to bless me and give some kind of dumb condition I can break any moment.”

“Oh, not a bad idea! All right. You have my blessing to go home… or rather, to return to the living world, we need you in this room right now... as long as you don’t, let me think…” Héctor paused, the shining petal now the only light in the room. “Yes! As long as you don’t jump up and down hooking like a monkey.”

“... Seriously?”

“Papá!” Mamá Coco exclaimed, trying and failing to sound stern over her own snicker.

“My way or no way, children. My way or no way.”

“Ugh. Fine. Fine,” Miguel muttered, and grabbed the petal. It was different from last time, because then he’d had to return to the Land of the Living, and now he was already there. There were no petals, no sensation of falling: the only difference was that suddenly there was silence around him, and that he could tell exactly how dusty the room was.

“No one has aired this place since 1957, either,” he muttered, and reached for the wall. He touched a cobweb or two at first, and grimaced, but finally his fingers found the light switch, and pressed it. For a moment nothing happened, then the light came on and, after some flickering, it stayed on. It was weak, but it would be enough to read… which was great news, since now Miguel could tell that there was a lot in there to read. All walls were covered in shelves, and each one was so full of old folders that it was a wonder none had collapsed. Miguel took a long breath, coughed out some dust, and approached the closest shelf.

_ Please be in alphabetical order. Or by year. Just be in  _ some _ kind of order. _

He grabbed two folders at random from the same section, and breathed out a sigh of relief when he found himself staring at surnames that started with the letter A. They were not exactly in alphabetical order, but they were grouped by first letter and that made things easier. Then Miguel’s gaze fell on one of the certificates, that of one José Alzamirano, born in August 1902, and almost cried out in triumph. 

There was a blank section where the name of the father should have been, but there was something written in the mother’s section: L. Treuba. So the nuns who had run the orphanage had never divulged the names of the women who gave birth there, but they had recorded them. “We can do this! This can work!” he exclaimed, knowing that they could hear him even if he couldn’t hear them, and immediately went looking for the D section. He found it almost right away, and began browsing as fast as he could. 

Del Rio, he kept mouthing like a silent prayer as he went through the shelves. Maricruz del Rio. Del Rio, del Rio, del Rio… “Díaz, Duarte, Delgado, de la Cruz, del Vall--”

Wait. What? Miguel blinked, taken aback, and pulled out the folder to open it. His eyes scanned the writing in faded ink, fully expecting to see a very familiar name on it... but he did not, not quite. The document was about one Estéban, not  _ Ernesto, _ de la Cruz - left at the door of the nearby church as a newborn, with no note nor name, in 1866. Thirty years too early for him to be the same person: Ernesto de la Cruz had been born in 1896. It was one of many bits of trivia about him that Miguel still remembered perfectly, to his own annoyance. He'd really rather forget all about him.

Maybe Héctor would know something about that, but he would ask him later. It was not important at the moment. Actually, it was not important at all. Miguel put the folder back, and kept searching for the one name that mattered.

_ Del Rio. _

* * *

“De la Cruz.”

Imelda spat out the name as she would with a piece of rotten meat, eyes scanning the inside of the shack. A filthy abode for a filthy murderer; it seemed fair. Except that the murderer in question was nowhere to be seen, and that open trapdoor in the middle of the room told her exactly how he’d weaseled his way out while Pepita tore down the wall. 

And not just him. There were two sets of prints in the dust, plain to see even without Pepita to make them glow, and they told her all she needed to know: the boy had been there, and now Ernesto de la Cruz had him. Because it was him, had to be him; there was not a single other soul in the Land of the Dead Pepita would attack, let alone with such ferocity. 

_ He is the only chance for Socorro to go home if Miguel’s idea fails, and now de la Cruz took him. This is not a coincidence.  _

“Mamá Imelda! What happened?”

Imelda turned to see Socorro running up to the wrecked shack, although she stopped short of stepping too close to Pepita - who, on the other hand, was sitting with her head lowered, clearly ashamed for having lost her prey like that. 

“Socorro! Didn’t I tell you… forget that. Didn’t I tell that alebrije to hold you back?”

That gained her a shrug. “I pretended to throw him a stick and he let go to jump in the water,” she said. Imelda groaned, reaching up to rub her forehead. Why had she thought, even for  _ one _ moment, that Dante would have two brain cells to rub together and understand a simple order? It was an excellent question, but not one she would get an answer for, because Socorro spoke up the next moment. 

“Where is Cheque?”

Off somewhere with a murderer, she thought, but she knew better than replying like that. She stepped forward instead and put a hand on her shoulder, trying to ignore her anxious expression… and the fact she could now see her bones up to the elbows.

“We need to find the rest of the family, and call the authorities,” she finally said, keeping her voice even. “It’s not only Ezequiel we need to find now.”

* * *

For a few moments after resurfacing, Ernesto focused on nothing but breathing. 

It was hardly real breathing; the air had no lungs to fill at all. As he’d told the boy, they didn’t really need it… but it was something most of them did on a reflex because, even in death, drawing in no air felt unnatural to the point of being almost uncomfortable. And right now, soaking wet through all layers of clothing, hair in his eyes, weights in his pockets and a still motionless child in his arms, Ernesto de la Cruz already had plenty to feel uncomfortable about. 

“All right. We’ll be safe here for a time,” he said, and he was fairly certain of that to an extent. He wasn’t sure for how long, though: the old junkyard had hardly any visitors, let alone on a night for celebration, and the alebrije would not be able to follow his trail through the water… but Imelda was certainly going to alert the authorities he’d been sighted, and that he’d kidnapped a boy to boot. There were bound to be agents looking for him everywhere soon enough, and he hadn’t even had the time to bring his scarf or hat with him. His head and face were entirely uncovered, and he’d have to find something to fix that.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. Barely suppressing a shudder - now  _ that _ was a sound he’d be happy not to hear again for the rest of his non-life - Ernesto counted the tolls. 

_ Eight hours to dawn. I won’t have to elude them for long. Eight more hours, and then whatever happens won’t matter anymore. _

The boy shifted in his arms, and Ernesto put him down on a heap of junk. He sat on it, hugging his knees to his chest, eyes huge beneath a mop of wet hair. A drowned rat, Ernesto thought as he took the weights out of his pockets and let them drop, and a miserable one at that.

It was rather sad: the boy had done nothing to be caught in the middle of all that, and Ernesto had nothing against him personally - but now it was too late to just send him back his way. He was in too deep and would not pass up that chance to strike back at the Riveras, to at least make a dent on the perfect little afterlife they had made for themselves at his expenses.

“Are you all right, niño?”

Cheque shook his head and closed his eyes, holding tighter onto his knees. Ernesto sighed and sat next to him. “I am sorry. I had hoped they would not resort to that. As I said, they are ruthless when it comes to protecting their family,” he added before striking a calculated blow. “I know you thought your friend would protect you, but don’t be too harsh on her. She had to choose between you and her family’s decision. You were simply… not her choice.”

With a shuddering breath, the boy let go of his knees and reached for his whiteboard. He took the marker out of his pocket and tried to wipe the surface dry - hard to do with a wet sleeve - before he wrote with a shaky hand. Water made some of the ink leak like black tears.

THEY SAID I COULD BE PART OF THEIR FAMILY, TOO.

_ And Héctor always said I was like a brother to him, but when it came to choosing I was more of a distant cousin. Or the next door neighbour. Or some guy he’d waved at by mistake once. _

“And I’m sure they meant it when they said it, but now... well. You wouldn’t send a rabid alebrije after  _ family, _ would you?” he added. Cheque seemed about to write something, but he did not. His hand shook again,  _ all _ of him did, and he wrote nothing. Ernesto let out another sigh and put a hand on his upper back. He was trembling so much he was mildly surprised that his bones did not rattle.

“At least you’re safe now. The Riveras are not all bad, but now they’re angry, and… this is what happens when they’re angry. If you wait until morning before you try giving your blessing, they just might welcome you again. And your friend--”

Cheque tore himself from his touch and jumped on his feet, shaking his head so furiously that droplets of water flew in the air. For one absurd moment Ernesto was reminded of the spittle flying from the rabid coyote’s mouth so many years ago… then Cheque was looking at him, scowling, and he realized he hadn’t been too far off after all. 

He’d assumed the shaking had meant that the boy was crying or terrified, but he was not. Or perhaps he was both, but that had not been it. Now that Cheque was facing him what he saw on his face was dark, seething fury. He was hurt, he was angry, and Ernesto knew exactly what he was about to say before he even wrote it, before he  _ threw _ the whiteboard at him and marched off, deeper into the junkyard.

Ernesto caught the whiteboard, looked at it, and had to hold back a grin.

SHE CAN WAIT FOR THAT BLESSING UNTIL THIS PLACE FREEZES OVER. I’M NOT GOING BACK AND NEITHER IS SHE.

_ The pup has teeth, _ he thought, and for a moment before he stood and followed the boy - he would not let him out of his sight for one moment for the next eight hours - he felt almost absurdly proud. Maybe he would change his mind after his fury wore off, but that hardly mattered. He may not know it yet, but there would be no need to wait until the Land of the Dead froze over: only until sunrise.

Then the deed would be done, and there could be no going back.


	7. The Poisoned River

“Ah, Ernesto, isn’t she the most beautiful girl in the world?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“And have you ever seen anybody dancing the way she does?”

“Everything’s getting dark…”

“Oh God, she’s looking this way!”

“You know, I really appreciate it how you always listen to-- did you just-- seriously?”

“Shh, don’t talk to me!”

“You know that absolutely _everyone_ can tell you’re hiding behind me, right?”

“Don’t move! If you keep still--” Héctor hissed, only to be cut off when Ernesto suddenly waved a hand and called out across the market at the top of his lungs.

“Hey, Imelda! ‘Morning! Héctor has got something to say to you!”

“... I hate you so much right now.”

“You’ll thank me later. I think.”

“You just want to see me making a fool out of myself.”

“That, too,” Ernesto admitted, and stepped aside before Héctor could retort, causing him to be face to face with Imelda - who looked entirely unimpressed with him, with the groceries she was carrying, with the heat of the day, with the universe as a whole.

“Ah. Er. Hello,” he said, and Ernesto backed away. As much as he would have loved to listen to the inevitable trainwreck, he’d rather not stand too close should she lose her nerve… and it looked like her younger brothers had come to the same conclusion, because they pretended to be suddenly interested in his same fruit stall.

“You just like watching him squirm, don’t you?” one of the children muttered, looking up, and Ernesto shrugged.

“Guilty as charged, er… which one are you?”

“I’m Óscar.”

“Or is he?” his brother quipped, and they looked up at him with identical lopsided smiles.

“Or am I Felipe?” the other echoed.

“You may never know!”

Ernesto shrugged. “Very well. I’ll call you both Bobo from now on.”

“Hey!”

“That’s not fair!”

“You started it, Bobos.”

“Excuse me, children? Yes, especially the big one in the middle. Are you going to buy anything at all, or are you just going to loiter in front of my stall? _Some_ of us are trying to make a living here.”

Ernesto looked up to see the stall owner - no, the stall owner’s daughter - looking at them with a frown, skinny arms crossed over her chest and tapping one foot on the ground. He gave her his tried and tested Can’t Be Mad At Me grin.

“You know you like me, Mariquita.”

Maricarmen de la Fuente let out a scoff, arms still crossed. “I’d like you better if you bothered to pay for the fruit you keep pilfering from my father’s stall. Or use my name,” she pointed out. Personally, Ernesto didn’t think she should complain about the nickname: it was a lot better than _Palilla,_ as they'd been calling her until a couple of years earlier.

To be entirely fair, she _did_ look kinda like a toothpick: too thin, too tall, too sharp. When they’d been kids she was all elbows and knees, likely to trip over her own feet and often covered in scratches and bruises.

She hadn’t changed that much, but at least she no longer fell flat on her face all the time.

“I don’t pilfer, señorita,” Ernesto replied, doing his best to sound insulted, and brought a hand to his heart. “The nerve, comparing me to a thief! You should think of it like... a long-term open tab.”

Her eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. She’d tried to tie her hair back in a bun or something like it, probably to keep her neck uncovered in the heat of the day, but now it looked more like a bird had nested in it. “Hu-uh. And _when_ are you planning to pay up, if I may?”

“As soon as I’m rich and famous, I’ll buy you a brand new stall. Twice as big.”

“Oh, sure you are.”

“If I didn’t know you, I would _almost_ say you’re sceptical about my chances,” Ernesto muttered. Sure, let her be sarcastic all she wanted - but as soon as the Revolution was over with, and the country would be safe to travel again, he and Héctor would hit the road and show them all. He was about to say as much when one of the Bobos spoke up.

“Maricarmen? We want to buy an apple!”

“A red one!”

“Do you now? With actual money, unlike a certain someone I will not name? I’m moved. Do you want me to cut it in half for you?”

“No, we’ll do it. You mess it up every time!”

“Cutting an apple? How would I mess up--”

“You never cut it _exactly_ in half. Felipe and I are going to do it. We brought the measuring tape this time!”

“... Sometimes I wonder about you, muchachos.”

“That’s what Imelda says.”

“Just not sometimes. All the time.”

Oh, wait. Imelda. Ernesto had forgotten about throwing Héctor in hot water. He turned to take a look at a situation, not without taking an apple from the stall himself. Had she already stormed off, leaving Héctor to stand miserably in the middle of the market square? If so he should probably prepare himself to give him a few pats on the back and the usual words of encouragement, or… no, wait, Imelda was still there. They both were, they were talking and… wait. Was she _laughing_ with him now?

Ernesto found himself staring, mouth agape and the apple in mid-air, only to recoil when someone snatched it from his hand.

“Well, look at you,” Maricarmen muttered, putting the apple back in place after briefly rubbing it on the fabric of her apron. “If I didn’t know you, I would _almost_ say you were sceptical about his chances.”

To be entirely honest, Ernesto hadn’t been ‘sceptical’: he had been absolutely certain Héctor had no chance at all to get anywhere with Imelda. She was way, way out of his league; Ernesto had encouraged him to try just because that's what friends are supposed to do and because, well, it was somewhat fun to watch the result.

In the end, he shrugged. “He made her laugh. So what? Doesn’t mean much. It’s not like they’re going out for dinner,” he said, the surprise starting to wear off. Even if they did go out, Ernesto fully expected it to be a complete disaster. Héctor couldn’t possibly be a good match for Miss Attitude; he would find out eventually, though hopefully he wouldn’t get his feelings too hurt in the process.

It was no big deal. No big deal at all.

* * *

There were plenty of things Ernesto de la Cruz would have been happy to never see again.

That accursed alebrije was one; next came the entirety of the Rivera family and, as a distant third, there was his own reflection. He hadn’t changed all that much - not at all, really - but that was precisely the problem. Pristine bones meant he was no closer to being forgotten, and their whiteness was a stark contrast to the poor excuse of clothing he wore those days.

At least now he was no longer dripping wet, and he could deal with some dampness. He had discarded his old coat after finding another one in the junkyard. It was even more ragged, but it was dry and had a hood, and he needed to hide his face as much as he could. Looking at his reflection in the old broken mirror he’d found leaning against a pile of junk, he was satisfied to see it did a pretty good job at covering his features.

_I have been on the run for eight years. I can hold my own for eight more hours._

With a sigh, Ernesto pulled back the hood and reached to slick back his hair, more out of habit than anything else, but paused when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked down. The boy was standing next to him, looking at the same mirror and fixing his own hair. Ernesto raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was being mocked, but Cheque seemed genuinely annoyed with the way his damp hair kept sticking in all directions. He tried to smooth it back again before looking up at him, markedly unimpressed.

Ernesto shrugged. “You have to admit it was a clever escape route,” he said, causing the boy to roll his eyes and write again.

DO YOU TAKE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM?

Oh no, he wasn’t going to stand there and take lip from a mute child of all things. Ernesto scoffed and snatched the whiteboard from his hand. “No. I do no-- ow!” he yelped when the boy kicked his shin, hard, and held up his hand with a scowl. Ernesto scowled back. “No criticism,” he warned, and handed the whiteboard back. Cheque took it, and wrote again.

WHAT NOW?

_Now we stay hidden until dawn and oh God, I want a drink more than anything right now._

Except that he couldn’t because he needed to be lucid, more now than ever. “Someone is going to come looking. As far as they’re concerned, I have kidnapped you,” he muttered, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. There was a lot more he was wanted for, but the boy did not need to know. “There will be agents everywhere and they will check all places close to water. As soon as my alebrijes get here, we’ll move,” he added, but he was unable to hold back a frown before he looked around.

Actually, where were they? It had been some time, certainly they should be there already. They hadn’t taken that long when they’d practiced that escape last time. If they didn’t show up soon, he’d have no choice but to get moving without them, as much as he hated the idea.

_Well, it will be the practice run for when I’m caught. I doubt I’ll get to take them with me._

The thought was sudden and, frankly, a lot more terrifying than it had any right to be: whatever happened next, he would face it alone. Forcing himself to ignore the stab of fear - _it’s too late, I crossed the line and there is no going back_ \- Ernesto looked down at Cheque. If he focused on the fact the child had to be more scared than him, he found it easier to keep a cool head. “Perhaps we should start moving. If my alebrijes are nearby, they will--”

“Yip! Yip!”

There was yapping, and Ernesto had a moment or two to be relieved before he realized something was wrong. That was not the usual chorus: it was only one dog barking. Where were the others? Had they fallen behind? What was it with his alebrijes going missing that day? What _else_ was going to happen before that accursed night was over?

As it turned out, an awful lot.

* * *

“Del Rio! Yes! Found it!”

Miguel let out a cry of triumph - forgetting, for a moment, that he wasn’t supposed to be there - and turned from the shelf to slam the folder down on the closest flat surface, a cluttered old desk, so that the others could see it as well. That folder had slipped behind the shelf who knew how long ago, but he’d finally _found_ it. He opened it, eyes scanning the faded ink.

Yes _,_ it was the right one! Maricruz del Rio, born on 12 December 1921 to one… the ink was so faded... Mariquita? Yes, that was it. Mariquita. Was it a nickname? Maybe it stood for María del Carmen, it usually did. And the surname…  Damn it, he couldn’t even read it, the ink was too ruined and it looked like a scribble. That was not enough! He needed a surname!

_All right, all right. Keep calm. It’s better than nothing. Time to discuss the next move._

With an inward sigh, Miguel closed his eyes and began jumping up and down on the spot, making noises that he hoped sounded close enough to a monkey hooking. He must have come close enough, because it worked: the next moment he could see the others again, standing around him and staring down at the folder.

“You make a wonderful monkey, Miguel,” Mamá Coco said, not unkindly, and Miguel smiled sheepishly.

“Please, don’t tell Socorro about this. Ever,” he said, and glanced at Héctor. He was frowning down at the document, biting on one of his phalanges.

“I can’t make out the surname, but maybe… you were around at the same time,” Miguel said, trying to keep desperation from creeping into his voice. “Do you have any idea…?”

Slowly, Héctor nodded. “Mariquita,” Héctor repeated, and the frown deepened. “I have... heard that somewhere before.”

Miguel stared at him, hands clammy and heart beating somewhere in his throat. “You have? Can you remember who it was?”

Héctor scowled, clearly trying his hardest to focus, and reached up to rub his chin. He turned abruptly and began pacing back and forth. “Mariquita,” he repeated. “Mariquita, Mariquita… Mari… Rayos!” Héctor let out an odd choking noise, his hand dropping off his face and then right on the floor, along with the rest of the arm. For a moment he looked absolutely flabbergasted… and then he began talking again, _very_ fast.

“Of course! We need to get-- Where did my arm go? Ah, thanks, mija. We need to go back right away! I think I know who Ezequiel’s great-great-grandmother is, but she doesn’t have much time and neither do we.”

Miguel opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that - was that Mariquita being forgotten? Was that why she didn’t have much time? - but he had no time to force out a single word, because the next moment Héctor was already bolting out of the room. None of them wasted any time running after him, though Mamá Coco and Papá Julio fell behind almost right away.

“Do you really know who it is?” Miguel called out. He’d almost caught up, and Héctor had to barely glance over his shoulder to see him.

“Almost positive! If it’s who I think it is, I knew her in life! But she’s almost forgotten now - we didn’t even know if she’d make it to this year’s Día de los Muertos! I’ll go straight to the mansion. You get Socorro there as soon as possible!”

“The mansion? De la Cruz’s mansion?”

“Yes, that’s where the nearly forgotten live now. Ay, I really hope she’s still hanging on! If she’s gone, we only… nah, forget about it. I don’t even want to _think_ about the alternative,” Héctor shouted, and picked up his pace - leaving Miguel to struggle to keep up with him up the stairs and to the exit, wondering what the alternative would even be.

* * *

“De la Cruz? Are you… are you certain?”

“Absolutely! There is no one else my alebrije would attack, and rightly so!”

“Well, recently there _have_ been records of a few odd attacks from alebrijes… maybe…”

“Oh no, you don’t! My Pepita is not some rogue alebrije! I’m telling you that it was de la Cruz! He has kidnapped a boy, and I _demand_ you get all of your officers in the streets at once! You have the child’s description - not get to work!”

“All right, all right! I’ll see what we can do!”

“Your _best_ is what you should be doing! That murderer has eluded you eight years too long!” Imelda snapped, causing the agent to wince before quickly moving to grab the closest phone. As he began talking into it she let out a long breath and turned to glance at Socorro, who was sitting on a chair with Dante’s head on her lap. She was staring absently at her arms, now fully skeletal. However, that clearly wasn’t what worried her the most.

“He was taken by a murderer,” she whispered, looking up at her. Her eyes were huge, and she looked younger than her eight years. Imelda regretted speaking so much, and so loud. She hadn’t know for certain that de la Cruz had murdered her great-great-grandfather until that night; in the Land of the Living it was a very persistent but unproven rumor. At least she remained unaware of the fact he had nearly killed her brother, too. “Are they really going to find him?”

Imelda had some serious doubts about the police’s competence, which was why she’d sent Pepita off to find the rest of the family to plan their next move together, but she knew better than saying as much. “They’ll be found, by the police or us,” she said, sitting next to her, and pulled her in an embrace. Socorro clung to her immediately, and she stroked her hair. “De la Cruz is a murderer and a rat of a man, but he cannot kill the dead. Nothing can,” she added.

He could hurt the boy, of course, break his bones and make him _wish_ he could die - that was something Imelda had seriously contemplated doing to de la Cruz herself - but she’d tear off her jaw before she mentioned that possibility in front of Socorro. Besides, did she really think he would do that? Torturing or maiming the boy would serve no purpose, and that rat never did anything without a reason, twisted as it may be.

Maybe he’d even befriended Ezequiel, the way he had with Miguel eight years earlier; the child had been scared and lost, and he must have been easy prey. Imelda had no idea how de la Cruz may have found out they needed him to save Socorro - why else would he take him? - but she planned on making him tell her as much once she got her hands on him.

“Can we go look for him now?” Socorro asked, her voice small, and Imelda nodded.

“As soon as Pepita returns with the rest of the family, we’ll set off as well,” she reassured her. She had a half idea of telling her she should stay there, because she would be killed if she ended up in de la Cruz’s hands… but if her previous experience had taught her anything, it was that telling her flesh and blood a such thing would only make her go and try to find her friend on her own, putting her in even more danger. If Miguel were there--

“Socorro! Mamá Imelda! I finally found you, I looked for you everywhere!”

Her great-great-grandson didn’t run inside the police station as much as he _burst_ into it, almost failing to skid to a halt and nearly crashing into the opposite wall. He regained his balance, though, despite Dante jumping up to him.

“Miguel! Cheque was--” Socorro began, but her brother gave her no time to say more before he grabbed her arm and pulled her on her feet.

“You’ll tell me later. Now you’ve got to follow me. I’ll explain on the way,” he exclaimed before he ran off with Socorro in tow, leaving a very confused Imelda no chance but to follow, wondering exactly what _else_ was going to happen before the end of the night.

* * *

Well, that night just kept getting better and better.

It had started with a missing alebrije, had continued with his shack being torn town, and now he was on the run with _three_ out of four alebrijes missing. And the one left was limping, too, but he’d refused to let him take a look: he had just barked, pulled at his trousers, and walked back the way he had come - certainly expecting to be followed, to show them… whatever it was that had happened to the others on their way there.

All things considered, it would have been best to forget about it all, find a bottle of something strong and just hide in a hole until dawn. Or until the Final Death came. That had been a good plan. A solid plan. Why had he strayed from it in the first-- oh, right. The boy. The same boy who was holding onto his hand as he followed his remaining alebrije through one of the shadies parts of the Land of the Dead against his better judgment. There had been something about revenge, too, but at the moment it was the least of his worries.

The toll of a bell in the distance caused Ernesto to wince, this time visibly enough for Cheque to look up at him. Ernesto pretended to shrug it off. The painful throb in his head, the one telling him he needed a drink, spiked for a moment before settling again.

“I don’t like this place,” he said, and it wasn’t even a lie, really. If not for the fact his alebrijes were missing, Ernesto wouldn’t have set foot in the abandoned barrio for anything: it was as dark and dreary as Shantytown, and just as empty, but for an entirely different reason. Word was that it had been a commercial area like many others a long time ago, far before he’d died, and the run-down buildings they were walking past were proof of that.

There was a small river running through it - little more than a canal - and, at one point, if had become poisonous. Some talked about a curse, some about waste that had sunk in through the soil at the nearby junkyard, while others had mentioned natural gases that had found their way to the water. There were rumors that anyone drinking from it would become ill, their bones brittle, and it had even been suggested it had effects on alebrijes, bringing them to madness. If _that_ was where his alebrijes had become lost, it could be a huge problem.

“Why did you pass through here? It wasn’t even on the way!” Ernesto muttered, glancing down at Diablo. The tiny alebrije was standing slightly ahead of them, sniffing the ground, one of his front paws lifted… then, before Ernesto could add a single word, he suddenly turned and began growling and barking frantically at him. “What is--” Ernesto began, only to trail off when he felt Cheque pulling at his arm with clear urgency, when he heard the noise of dripping water… and then a very angry, very loud hiss right behind him.

_Please be natural gas. Please be natural gas._

Ernesto turned, and looked up. It was not natural gas.

_Well, this is overkill. There should be a size limit for these things._

Rising from the dark water, the huge alebrije - a snake that may very well be thirty feet long, its scales in blue and green hues with yellow spots - stared down at them for a few moments, bright red tongue flickering in the air. It stayed still, and Ernesto had precisely two seconds to think that maybe they could get out of that one by just slowly walking away before Diablo bolted and tried to attack it, barking furiously.

Ernesto dove forward without thinking, snatching up his dog only one moment before the snake’s jaw snapped where Diablo had stood a moment before. The beast’s snout hit the cobblestones with enough force to crack them, and Ernesto decided not to stay to survey the damage. He turned, pushed Diablo in the boy’s arms, and gave him a shove. _“Run!”_

He did run and, to his credit, he was incredibly fast for someone with such short legs. He was ahead of him in moments, Diablo clutched to his chest. There was more hissing, crashing sounds and scales sliding on the cobblestones, but Ernesto kept running and didn’t turn to see how close the alebrije was. He saw Cheque diving into a small alley on the right and he prepared to follow, _tried_ to follow… but the pavement was slick with water, and he slipped when he tried to turn the corner. He had no time to get up and try again.

For a moment he saw the boy into the alley, looking back at him with wide eyes, a hand around Diablo’s muzzle to keep him from barking; then he was hit with terrible force, and he was thrown in air before landing on the hard ground and rolling a few feet further. Something cracked against a jagged piece of rock, and pain flared in his right side when he tried to stand up. Ernesto let out a grunt, and reached to press a hand on cracked ribs just as a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see the alebrije towering over him, fangs bared and dripping venom, coiled up to strike. Well, that was going to hurt, wasn’t i--

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, high whistle - so high that it made him cry out and reach to cover ears he no longer had. The pain in his head grew worse, to the point he almost thought it would split his skull in two, but it seemed to pain the alebrije even more: it shook furiously and let out a loud hiss before sinking back in the river, iridescent scales disappearing into murky water. Then the whistling ended, and the pain in Ernesto’s skull seemed to ease. He lifted himself to his knees, a hand reaching up to pull the hood further down his face… only to find that it had fallen back, leaving his head entirely uncovered. Of course it had. He may be long dead, but Día de los Muertos was most certainly _not_ his day.

The realization hit him the same moment a woman’s voice rang out. “Well well. We got ourselves a celebrity right here, muchachos. Get him, what are you waiting for?”

Ernesto tried to get up, tried to run, but it was too late: there was laughter and then three different men were on him, holding him down. “No! Let me go! Let go! Please!” he cried out, and tried to struggle, but it was useless. He was slammed back down on the ground and suddenly someone’s boot was pressing down on his sternum, turning his broken ribs into shards of pain. He let out a strangled scream, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Stop moving, and we won’t hurt you,” someone above him was saying, her voice quiet and pleasant like they were having a chat over a drink. “Keep squirming, and we’ll break bones until you stop. I don’t need to hand you over in one piece to cash in the reward, de la Cruz.”

Ernesto ground his teeth, but didn’t move, and after a moment the pressure was gone from his sternum. He looked up, still pinned to the ground, to see a skeleton standing over him with a wide grin. In her hand, she was holding what looked like a whistle made out of bone.

“Good. See, we can settle this like civilized people. Now, I’d ask you what you were doing here, but to be honest I don’t really care. It was a stroke of luck and I don’t argue with luck,” she added, and gestured the men holding him down to pull him up.

They did, forcing him on his knees before they yanked his arms behind his back and tied them together, pulling uncomfortably at his shoulder joints. Only then they yanked him up to his feet; he swayed, and they had to hold him up. “What now, Anita?” one of them asked.

“Go find our contact, Pedro. Tell him we’ve got Ernesto de la Cruz ready for collection. He takes the glory, we split the reward,” she added, and one of the men ran down the street, past the alley where the boy was hiding. Was he still there? How much had he heard?

_It doesn’t matter now. He’s on his own. It’s over. I tried and I lost and I’m so tired._

“Get moving. Don’t worry, we won’t keep you for long. Even we have standards - wouldn’t want you to stink up the place too much,” someone was saying, giving him a shove, and he did get walking with a heavy limp, saying nothing. He had nothing to offer in exchange for his freedom, no way to bargain, no strength to beg.

For once, he was all out of words.

* * *

“Hola, Maricarmen. You look great.”

It was a lie, and not a very good one to boot. The skeleton lying on the bed - a pretty comfy one, in one of the many guest rooms of the mansion; not a bad place to face the Final Death - looked just as bad as Héctor had eight years earlier, yellowed and frail, facial marks faded. But, if anything, his greeting did something to lift her spirits.

“Oh, of course I do. And in a minute I will get up and start cartwheeling,” Maricarmen de la Fuente muttered, her voice like old paper. She turned her head just enough to look at him, and smiled faintly. “I asked to be left alone, I was getting ready to go and in you waltz, cousin Héctor,” she added.

Most of the nearly forgotten still referred to him as their cousin Héctor, and even now that he was back with his family it never failed to make him smile. He and Maricarmen had been mere acquaintances in life and not precisely friends in death, but there was a sense of kinship that came with being almost forgotten. Except that he had come back from the brink, and she would not. She was the last of her family to be still hanging on there in the Land of the Dead, or at least that was what Héctor had thought until that night.

Now there was someone else, a little boy who had come there before his time.

“Your timing is bad in death as it was in life,” she was going on. “What do I owe the visit?”

“I’d like to say I have come to ask you to come join the party downstairs, but the truth is that I need your help.”

That caused her to blink. “My help? Have you taken a look at me? I can’t even stand.”

“You won’t need to. I have a great-great-granddaughter here. A living one.”

Maricarmen tilted her head on one side. “Did it happen again? What _is_ it with your family?” she asked, and Héctor grinned a bit sheepishly.

“I do wonder sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he admitted, and sat on a chair next to the bed. “She… she’ll be here soon. She needs your blessing to go home.”

That caused her to blink again in clear confusion. “Mine? Have you hit your skull?”

“More than once, but I’m not loco. She took something from the grave of a descendant of yours. Or rather, a descendant of Maricruz del Rio.”

There was a silence that seemed to stretch on for hours. She stared at him, her expression unreadable, before she finally sighed. “You know of her. How?”

“You left a name on the birth certificate at the orphanage. Mariquita. Not your real name, but that is how Ernesto always called you. Once I remembered that, the child’s surname was another giveaway," Héctor added, and shrugged. "De la Fuente. Del Rio."

Maricarmen smiled. “Ah, yes. That. If not my surname, at least she could have the closest possible thing. It doesn’t matter where a river flows to and how the course may change - it will always spring from its source. I thought I was being clever. Poetic, even.”

“I do think it’s rather clever,” Héctor said, and smiled for a moment before turning serious again. “She was born in December," he said slowly. “The twelfth.”

 _The day I died. My girl lost her father and another was born without one,_ he thought. In the back of his mind, he recalled something the clerk at the Department had said earlier.

_This boy’s family line is a complete trainwreck. It’s like it was cursed or something, I swear._

Unaware of his musings, Maricarmen nodded. "Yes, that’s correct. My birthday celebrations had been... less than traditional that year."

“... You didn’t need to tell me that,” Héctor said, deadpanned, gaining himself a weak snicker.

“My apologies. Where is it you’re trying to get?” she asked, and Héctor hesitated for a moment before replying.

"Ernesto and I had left Santa Cecilia in early June."

"That you did," she said, quietly. “Never to come back, either of you. At least you had an excuse. Ernesto only ever returned to Santa Cecilia in a coffin, as far as I can tell. Never alive, not even to see his parents. He sent them money, sure enough - more than they had any use for - but he never came back. His mother spoke of nothing but him to her deathbed, and he hardly wrote home. It was heartbreaking.”

“I can imagine,” Héctor murmured, and paused. She held his gaze and he could tell she already knew what he meant to ask, but was waiting for him to say it anyway. So he drew in a deep breath, and did just that. "Did _he_ know?"

There was a very weak, but sincere laugh. "That he'd landed me in trouble? Heavens, no. Why tell him? He would have left either way, and that was the best case scenario. Worst case, he'd have been forced to stay and I would have been stuck for the rest of my life with someone who resented me. A bitter husk of a man, like his father. He was more like old Estéban than he ever knew, as much as he looked down on him. A few curveballs in life, and he would have turned out the same. Not that he was any better in the end. For all of his flaws, his old man was no murderer."

Well, Héctor had nothing to argue against that. He had distant memories of Ernesto’s father, who always had a bottle in his hand and a curse not too far away from his lips. He had been a thoroughly unpleasant man, and Héctor had been somewhat scared of him… but when push came to shove, everyone in town had agreed that his heart was in the right place. The same couldn’t be said for his son, who was so pleasant and ever the charmer and yet had turned out to be so much worse. Trying to ignore the thought, Héctor smiled a little.

"You did dodge a bullet."

"That, or a glass of rat poison vintage."

This time, they both laughed. “I took one for the team,” Héctor muttered, prompting more snickering, but it didn’t last long: within moments Maricarmen was left winded and had to lay back down on the pillow, a golden shimmer passing through her body. There were a few moments of silence before she spoke again, brushing some iron gray hair out of her eyes.

“I could hardly believe it when it became known. What Ernesto did to you. You were children together, hardly ever apart and always up to something. I… heh. I can still remember _exactly_ the face my father made when he talked about ‘those two’. And yet everybody liked you, in the end. We all thought you were as close as friends can be.”

Héctor gave a bitter smile. _He would never,_ Miguel’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. _He’s her best friend._

“That’s what I thought, and maybe we were. Maybe _he_ believed it, too, but that was then,” Héctor heard himself saying before changing subject. “I hope it wasn’t too hard for you, after… you know.”

Maricarmen shook her head. “No. It wasn't hard to hide," she replied. Her voice seemed to come from far away. "I was always thin as a toothpick; it didn't show much. The right clothes hid it well enough, until I packed up to visit an ailing aunt a couple of towns over. No one asked. People can be wonderfully incurious, if you come up with a tale that’s boring enough.”

"But you went to the nuns instead."

"Yes. I stayed inside and earned my keep there, cleaning and cooking as long as I was able to, which was right up to the night my daughter was born. She was the tiniest thing you can imagine, shrieking so loud I thought everyone outside would hear her -  I could hardly hear myself thinking. She got Ernesto’s lungs, I guess. I was allowed to name her.”

“And you called her Maricruz.”

“Yes. Even less subtle than her surname, I know, but she did have his blood. I figured there should be _some_ of him in her name,” Maricarmen admitted, and shrugged. “Well, that was the last I saw of her. I was back home a few days later, and life went on as usual," she added. "I never looked for her, in life or death. I thought it would be for the best. I'd hoped she would be adopted, but it clearly isn’t what happened if she carried the surname I came up with to the grave."

"No," Héctor admitted. "I’m sorry."

“And she has been forgotten, hasn’t she? Or else you wouldn’t be turning to me for that blessing. Not the way I am.”

“I am afraid so. She died young, in 1942.”

_Just as young as I was, leaving a daughter of her own behind._

Unaware of his thought, Maricarmen gave a guwaffing laugh. “Hah! Right when Ernesto kicked it. I outlived them both, then. So much for a toothpick.”

“I am sorry,” Héctor heard himself repeating, and Maricarmen let out a deep breath, leaning her head back down on the pillow. When she spoke again her voice was quieter, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"I wonder if I have met her, after all, before she was forgotten. We may have crossed paths or had some small talk in a shop, for all I know," she muttered, then she gave small sigh. "Ah well. I might be able to see her in... whatever lies beyond the Final Death, I suppose. Do you think there is something there?"

"Could very well be. No one knew for sure there would be anything after regular old death," he said, and smiled. "And yet here we are."

A chuckle. “Not for long, I’m not,” Maricarmen said, closing her eyes, and that golden shimmer flickered across her body again. She let out a groan, but she seemed more tired than pained. “I don’t know if I can hold on for long. I may not be able to help your great-great-granddaughter if she doesn’t come soon,” she managed. Her hand was grasping the sheets, and Héctor reached to give it a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it. Try to rest,” he said. Part of him wanted to plead with her to hang on just a little longer, just long enough for Socorro to get there, but he knew it did not depend on her… and if those were indeed her last minutes, it wouldn’t be fair to saddle her with his own desperation. So he kept quiet and held onto her hand, watching as the shimmering became more frequent and violent, as she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Then a bell tolled in the distance and the hand in his grasp dissolved in golden dust, blown away by non-existent wind, leaving his great-great-granddaughter’s fate in the hands of his murderer.


	8. The Stolen Alebrijes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yes hi someone amazing made art for this fic and gave me a stroke but I survived and so I’m sharing the glee](http://pengychan.tumblr.com/post/171464827730/appatary8523-yknow-i-really-love-pengychan-s).

“Well, aren’t you going to sing?”

“No.”

“Aw, why not? I think you should. That’s the only reason why I volunteered to watch you until the cop comes!”

Sitting with his back against the bars of the cage he’d been thrown into - there were empty cages everywhere in that storage room, plus several hanging from the ceiling, and he was too tired to even wonder about it - Ernesto replied without opening his eyes. “I haven’t been in a singing mood for the past eight years. My deepest apologies,” he said drily.

“I think this would be a good moment to sing, though. Being in a cage and all. There would be a joke there about a caged songbird, but I can’t come up with a good one. I’m really bad at this sort of thing. But hey, you’re crap at writing your own stuff from what I heard, so we’re even, sí?”

Ernesto opened his eyes to glare at him, or at least that was what he meant to do.  If the man’s reaction was anything to go by, he’d only managed to give him a very, very weary look.

“... Ah, damn. It’s like kicking a beaten dog. No fun at all,” he muttered, and and leaned more comfortably on the chair he was sitting on, reaching into a mini fridge beside him. He pulled out a bottle of cold beer, and Ernesto had to make a conscious effort not to stare at it. “Don’t look at me like that. I even untied your hands.”

“Before throwing me in a cage like an animal. Hardly necessary, that. I can’t really run away.”

“Oh, right. We had to hold you up on the way here. Hurt your tibia?”

“I think I cracked my patella,” Ernesto lied. Truth be told, that of limping had been an act: he’d half-hoped they would lower their guard if they’d thought he was unable to run, but that had simply not happened. Still, he saw no reason to tell the truth now. If they had not lowered their guard, then perhaps the police would.

“Ouch,” the man muttered, and he even managed to sound genuinely sympathetic.

“That’s what I said.”

That caused him to laugh a bit. “Heh! Look, I wouldn’t have put you in a cage if it were up to me, but it was Anita’s order. You don’t argue with Anita,” he added, taking a swig from the bottle of beer.

Ernesto, whose ribs still ached from the blow that had broken them and the boot that had pressed down on his sternum, had little doubt about that. “Noted,” he said dully, and leaned his head back against the bars. He’d meant to close his eyes again, but his gaze fell on the bottle. This time he stared at it for a few moments too long, and that didn’t pass unnoticed.

“Want a drink?”

“Oh, I’d kill for a drink,” Ernesto muttered, causing the man to howl with laughter. He was slightly shorter than Ernesto himself, but sturdier. Even if he were foolish enough to open the cage - unlikely, even if he’d fallen for his little limping act - he wasn’t sure he could take him on, not with cracked ribs that hadn’t yet begun to heal. He wasn’t sure at all.

“Hahahah! Kill for a drink! You _are_ funny, I’ll give you that!” he muttered, and stood, handing him the bottle through the bars. “Come on, have your last drink as a free man. Sort of.”

Ernesto didn’t hesitate to take it. “Gracias,” he said, and he even meant it. It was the longest real conversation he’d had in quite some time - unless a mute boy writing on a whiteboard counted - and with no insults to boot. That, and he couldn’t remembered last time he’d been offered anything at all, let alone a drink.

“De nada. Name’s Bartolo, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ernesto. It might ring a bell,” he replied without missing a beat, and this time they shared a laugh. Granted, his own sounded more than slightly unhinged, but he was past caring. He brought the bottle to his mouth and drank half the contents in one go. It was not as strong as he would have liked, but it would do. He didn’t want to be stone sober when the police came to get him and brought him out in the streets, in plain sight of everyone.

People would walk all over each other to take a close look at the disgraced Ernesto de la Cruz being dragged to jail, no doubt about it, and they were not going to be quiet about it, either. Maybe they would even have vegetables at hand to throw at him, just like last time he’d faced a crowd. Some alcohol might make that somewhat easier to bear. Maybe. If he was lucky.

_The world es mi familia. Hah. Was there really a time when I believed it?_

He grimaced at the thought and drank what was left of the beer in one go, causing Bartolo to whistle. “Wow. May as well have given you water.”

“Agreed. Don’t you have anything stronger?”

“Not right here, I’m afraid, and I can’t leave this room until we’ve handed you over. Anita would make a hat out of my hip bones. Sorry.”

Ernesto shrugged, putting down the empty bottle. He could use it to deal a good blow if he got half a chance, he noted distantly. “It was worth a shot. I thought this area was deserted. What do you do here?” he added. Someone with more than half a functioning brain would avoid answering - after all, they were about to hand him over to the authorities and loose lips sink ships - but it seemed that Bartolo did not, in fact, have more than half a brain.

“It’s a good base for operations _because_ it’s deserted. The snake was a problem when it first showed up - it’s a bit loco, must be all the time spent in the river - but Anita can keep it at bay with the whistle,” he replied. “It works on all alebrijes - they can’t stand the noise. But the snake keeps everyone away, so it’s useful, really. We mostly deal in de la Cru-- er, I mean, in fakes. Fake watches, fake money, unlicensed fireworks…”

“We’re almost colleagues, then,” Ernesto quipped, alcohol lending some semblance to humor to his voice, and there was more laughter. Neither of them noticed a small figure sneaking in slowly, and silently. 

“Hahah! You know, I’m almost sorry we have to hand you in now. You’re good fun, but not fun enough to give up on the reward for,” Bartolo said, likely unaware that he’d just delivered the best compliment Ernesto had gotten in years.  “Well, back to de la-- back to fakes, we’re nowhere near _your_ league, but we manage. Oh, and we’ve got the pit. That’s not legal either, but we’ve got enough cops on our payroll to keep it going without problems.”

“The pit?”

“Yes, it’s down underground. We make animals fight - roosters, dogs, rats, you name it. Usually just plain dead animals, but we get our hands on alebrijes every once in a while. They make for the best spectacles, heal quicker too. We’ve got people coming over every first and third Thursday of the month to place their bets on-- hey, what is it?”

_My alebrijes. This is why Diablo brought us here. You took them._

Ernesto’s hand clenched on the empty bottle, fury threatening to choke him for a moment. Those alebrijes were his and they had no right, _no right_ to take them from him, to steal them to make them fight in some stinking pit. What kind of fight could they put up, anyway? Just how badly would they be mangled once it was all over?

“You--” Ernesto began, only to trail off when he looked up and noticed that Bartolo was no longer the only other person in the room.

Standing behind him, his back to a wooden pillar, there was Cheque.

* * *

Compared to keeping Diablo silent and still while they took Neto away, following them had been a piece of cake.

The little alebrije had been desperately trying to jump off his arms and run to his owner, and it had taken all of Ezequiel’s strength to keep him from doing that, to keep his hand tight around his muzzle so that he couldn’t bark. He hated himself for doing it, but he knew there was no other option if he didn’t want to be found.

He had been so focused on it that he hadn’t been able to catch much of what was being said. He didn’t know who those people were, why they’d attacked Neto or why they were dragging him away, but he’d been able to tell two things: that they were not nice people, and that he had no intention to leave Neto in their hands.

He was sort of weird and at that point Ezequiel suspected he was a wanted man, but then again so was he, wasn’t he? And he’d been kind to him: he had helped him without asking for anything in return, even though the Riveras’ alebrije had destroyed his shack while trying to get to him and giving him up would have been so much easier. Neto had stuck with him even if he’d been nothing but trouble, while Socorro had turned her back to him.

The thought of Socorro hurt a lot, but it also steeled his resolve. He’d let down enough people that night, and he would not add Neto’s name on the list. So, when he heard the men starting to move away, taking Neto with them, he let out along breath and looked down at Diablo. He was looking up at him, finally silent, eyes huge with concern.

‘Quiet’, Ezequiel mouthed, and a wag of a tiny tail told him that the alebrije had understood the order. He set him down, and to his relief Diablo didn’t dash off: he stayed on the spot, waiting for the next order, and when Ezequiel gestured for him to follow he was at his heel the next moment. So far, so good.

Keeping an eye on the river, fearing that the huge snake would show up again, Ezequiel left the alley and quietly followed the men from a distance, through dark empty streets and run-down buildings. He could hear them jeering and, while he was not close enough to make out any words, he could tell that Neto was not saying anything at all.

He was limping, too; maybe he’d hurt a leg in the fall. When he stumbled and one of the men had to yank him back upright Diablo let out a low growl, but thankfully that was it, and they stayed unnoticed until they reached their destination: a large, bare building that looked like it might have been a storehouse, once. Ezequiel watched from behind an old bin as they pushed Neto inside before following, closing the door behind them.

It was a metal door with a formidable-looking padlock and even from a distance he could tell that was not a viable entrance for him, so he would have to find another one.

 _People talk a lot about moving mountains, or climbing them, but why bother?_ , he remembered his mother saying, a long time ago. _Sometimes all you need to do is just find the easy path around it._

He was dimly aware that his mother hadn’t been the right person to turn to for life advice, but after all, he was dead. Maybe bad life advice would turn out to work out for the dea--

With a sudden whine, Diablo bolted from his side towards the opposite corner of the building. Ezequiel looked around, alarmed - had they been spotted? Was the giant alebrije back? - but he could see nothing amiss. Diablo had stopped in front of a tiny window at ground level, and was pawing at it. A way in, maybe…?

He knelt in front of the filthy window and peered inside, but all he could see through the glass was a dirty floor and some crates. It opened a bit when he tried it, creaking horribly, but not enough for him to get through it, and wouldn’t budge another inch. He’d need to find--

With a sudden bark, Diablo darted forward and Ezequiel wasn’t fast enough to stop him. He couldn’t fit through the crack in the window, but the tiny alebrije could, and _did._ Before Ezequiel could try to grab him he’d disappeared inside, to his utter dismay. For a few moments he could hear him barking, and then nothing more, leaving him alone. Neto was inside and so was Diablo, and he had no idea how to follow. What could he do now?

Trying to keep the sense of helplessness at bay, Ezequiel turned back towards the huge, locked metal door. He would never be able to force his way through it, but… well, who said he had to? Maybe he could find another way in, like that one time when he’d gotten into the teachers’ room by faking a panic attack, and then had been left alone without question when he’d told the teacher looking after him that he was thirsty, could he have some water, please? He’d had his water and then walked back out in triumph half a hour later, with a copy of every question of the following week’s test in his pocket.

Who said that would be all that different? Those men hadn’t seen him with Neto, and they wouldn’t see him as a threat. No one ever did, and maybe _that_ was his easy path around the mountain. Ezequiel stood, brushing the dirt off his trousers, and set his jaw.

 _You’re just too good at playing the angelic orphan, chamaco,_ Miguel Rivera had told him the day he’d died, a week and yet an eternity before. _You could turn to a life of crime and no one would believe a word of your confession._

But even he had thought him a liar in the end, hadn’t he? He and Socorro and everyone else. Very well, so  he’d be a liar. Time to find out just how far he - little voiceless Cheque, so helpless with his whiteboard and a smile sweet enough to melt butter - could push it.

 _It’s now or never,_ he thought, and reached for his whiteboard.

* * *

When he heard the knock, Fabricio’s first thought was that Pedro must have forgotten his key, and that he had been pretty damn quick to get their cop - well, one of several cops they had on their payroll, but that was the highest ranked one - and return to pick up de la Cruz. Then he opened the door to see no one, and he wondered if his his earing was playing tricks on him.

Then he looked down, and he wondered if his _eyes_ were playing tricks on him.

“What the-- who…?” he muttered, taken aback. Standing before him there was a boy, so small he didn’t seem a day older than seven, staring up at him with brown eyes that looked too large for such a tiny face. He was holding a whiteboard in shaky hands.

PLEASE, HELP. I GOT LOST. A SNAKE TRIED TO EAT ME. I’M SO SCARED.

Oh, damn. Now that was something he didn’t need to be dealing with. A little kid wasn’t supposed to be out on his own in a place like that. With a look around - no, no one in sight - Fabricio reached to rub the back of his neck. “Uuuuh. I don’t think you’re asking the right person… at the right moment… in the right place…?” he muttered, and awkwardness turned into something closer to panic when the child’s features twisted and he burst crying.

It was eerie as hell because he was so _quiet,_ not a sound leaving him, but his eyes filled up with tears and and his shoulders shook, and he was the single most miserable sight he had ever seen. He wrote on the whiteboard with a trembling hand: I WANNA GO HOME!

“Aw, damn. No, no, muchacho, don’t cry!” he exclaimed, crouching down. He reached to wipe the boy’s eyes with his sleeve, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t cry, we’ll figure this out, yes? I’m Fabricio. There is a cop coming to, uh, to pick up… well. There is a cop coming. He’ll take you right back home, how about that?” he added. He knew he was not supposed to let anyone in without Anita’s authorization, but what the hell. Anita was in her damn suite at the upper floor, pretending to be the lady she really was not, and he wasn’t going to leave a little kid in the streets.

The boy looked at him, sniffling, and Fabricio gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He wasn’t good at that kind of thing; he looked threatening even when he didn’t mean to, which was half the reason why he’d been hired there.

“You can wait for the police with me, all right? They will be here soon,” he said, and the boy smiled. Maybe it was the relief, but it was the cutest damn smile he’d ever seen in his life or afterlife, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s better,” he said, ruffling his hair. “Come in, niño. You’ll be home before you know it,” he added, moving aside and entirely missing the instant when the smile turned into a frown as the boy reached up to slick back his hair and walked in. When he closed the door and turned back that sweet, relieved smile was back.

“All right, you can sit here,” he said, gesturing towards the small table he’d been sitting at. His half-made castle of cards was still on it. “Uh, maybe you’d like to have a go with those cards? Just as long as you don’t wander off. This is no place for--”

“Ruff! Woof!”

“Wha-- hey, aren’t you one of those-- how did you get out of the cage?” Fabricio snapped, taking a step forward. The tiny alebrije growled at him and seemed about to attack… then, to his surprise - because he was giving his back to the boy and did not see him mouthing an order, did not see him gesturing for the dog to run away - it turned and bolted down the hallway leading to the stairs, barking its head off.

“No! Hey! Come back here! Damn fleabag,” Fabricio muttered. He didn’t want to leave the kid unsupervised, but neither could he let the alebrije run around… and plus, if it had gotten out, it might be a good idea to check the cages. He turned to the boy, and saw that he was already keeping himself busy with the cards. Good kid, he thought. And even if he did wander off, well, what damage could a little boy do?

“All right, stay there and play, muchacho. Don’t move. A friend on mine could walk in any moment with the cop who’ll take you home, so don’t be scared,” he added, and waited for the boy to smile and nod before he went off after the alebrije.

He didn’t see the boy staring at his retreating back until he’d turned the corner of the hallway, and he definitely didn’t see him mouthing something that looked suspiciously like ‘cabrón’ before he destroyed the castle of cards with a swipe of his hand and stood to walk off into another hallway, silent as a ghost.

* * *

He was hallucinating. He must be hallucinating.

“I… what?” Bartolo was asking, taken aback by his sudden silence, but Ernesto paid him no mind. He turned his eyes from the spot where he could swear Cheque was standing and glanced sideways at the bottle still in his hand.

_All right, so maybe this was stronger stuff than I thought._

Ernesto turned back to the pillar and, sure enough, Cheque was still there, a hand behind his back. He smiled - no, he _grinned_ at him - one moment before Bartolo followed Ernesto’s gaze and turned to spot him. He paused, clearly as surprised as Ernesto had been.

“What the-- hey, kid! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Cheque looked back at him, and gave him a smile that was nothing short of angelic, holding up his whiteboard. GET OUT OF MY WAY. I WON’T ASK A SECOND TIME, it read.

Bartolo paused, clearly taken aback, then let out a laugh. “Hah! You got guts, I’ll give you that. Figuratively, I mean, you don’t really-- never mind. Now, how about you stay put and--” he began, only to trail off when Cheque shrugged and turned the whiteboard to show the writing on the other side.

SUIT YOURSELF, it read, and Ernesto had barely enough time to read it before Cheque pulled his hand from behind his back - a hand holding a rope. Above them, a metal cage hanging from the ceiling swung slowly back and forth. Ernesto blinked. Wait, wait just a--

“Wha-- no, wait, wait just--”

Cheque let go of the rope, and the cage came crashing down before Bartolo had the time to scream. Ernesto winced at the crash, scrambling to stand up, and gripped the bars of his own cage. At his feet, Bartolo’s skull was rolling across the ground, muttering curses as he tried and failed to put back together a skeleton mostly pinned under metal.

Ernesto had to admit that watching that happening to someone else was rather amusing.

“Uuugh, my head! What the-- hey! Don’t take that!” Bartolo tried to protest, but Cheque paid him absolutely no mind. He just picked up the cage’s keys from the floor where they’d fallen, and stepped right past his skull to hand them to Ernesto through the bars. He took them, but for a moment he just stared at the boy.

 _Why did you come for me?_ , he wanted to ask, but then his gaze fell on the whiteboard, and what left his mouth was quite different. “Did you just… prepare those writings in advance?” he asked, and Cheque gave a lopsided grin before wiping it clean to write a single word and then show it to him with a cocky tilt of his head.

DRAMA.

There was a laugh, and Ernesto didn’t realize right away it had come from him. It was the first _true_ laugh to leave him in years, entirely without bitterness, at it made him feel somewhat lightheaded. He turned the key in the lock, stepped out of the cage, and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Hah! You know what, I think I’m really starting to like-- oh, right. Not the hair. My apologies,” he added, holding up his hands when Cheque immediately went to fix his hair with an annoyed huff. He turned his attention to Bartolo, who was still trying to uselessly recall his trapped bones back to him, and went to kneel in front of his skull.

“Sorry about that, amigo. My young friend here is more ruthless than he looks, but he does get things done,” he said, picking his head up. Bartolo’s eyes fell on his bent knee.

“You said you had a cracked patella,” he muttered, almost accusingly, and Ernesto shrugged.

“I lied. So sue me,” he said. Honestly, what _else_ had he expected from Ernesto de la Cruz?

“You were limping all the way here!”

“I faked it. That’s one thing I’ve very good at, clearly,” he said. He stood, holding up Bartolo’s skull in front of his eyes. “Where do you keep the alebrijes?”

“Why do you--”

“You stole _my_ alebrijes, and I’ll be taking them back before I leave this hole. Chihuahuas. Where _are_ they?”

“I’m not telling you, de la-- ow! Hey!” he protested when Ernesto slammed his skull against the wall, before he could utter his surname. Cheque had not recognized him, but he had no doubt someone from Santa Cecilia would know his name if he heard it. “That hurt!”

“I can and _will_ do worse! Tell me where they are!” Ernesto snapped. It didn’t even matter that his days of freedom were numbered, that he’d probably be locked up somewhere until he was forgotten and would never get to see them again: he was _not_ going to leave them there.

“Ow! Fine! Two floors down! The large room in the middle, above a pit! You can’t miss it!”

Ernesto smiled. “There, see? It was not so difficult,” he said pleasantly. He reached into his coat’s pocket to grab a handkerchief, and stuck it in Bartolo’s mouth before he could add anything. “Sorry about that. We can’t have you howling like a coyote while we leave,” he added, looking around for someplace to stick his head.

He felt a pull at his sleeve, and looked down to see Cheque looking expectantly at him, a hammer in his hand. His eyes moved to Bartolo’s skull, then back to him, and he held up the hammer. In his hands, Bartolo let out a muffled noise of protest.

… Getting carried away, wasn’t he? Ernesto was amused, if _slightly_ concerned. “That’s… not a bad idea, but it’s not needed,” he said, and stuck the skull inside the mini fridge before closing its latch. There were some muffled noises, but they were very faint. Beneath the metal cage, the rest of Bartolo’s bones tried and failed to move. “There. No one will hear him, and maybe it will help him keep a cool head,” he added on a whim. He thought that was _hilarious,_ but Cheque didn’t seem impressed and put down the hammer to write a retort.

CHANGED YOUR MIND ABOUT CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM?

Ernesto let out a noise that was part a laugh, part a scoff. “You’re the worst public I ever had. Now let’s find my alebrijes before--” he began, only to trail off when Cheque wrote again.

WHY ARE YOU WANTED?

So, he’d gathered that much. Ernesto supposed he should count himself lucky he had not heard enough to figure out precisely who he was, and what he’d done. He opened his mouth to repeat what he always told himself - he was not to blame, his hand had been forced - but words turned into ash in his mouth, much like songs did those days. He could repeat that mantra over and over in his mind, but he suddenly found he couldn’t say it aloud.

“I’m a thief, and a--” the word _murderer_ stayed stuck in his throat, or at least where his throat would have been, as it always had. Even the few times he’d allowed himself to think back of that night, he’d never thought of it as murdering Héctor. He’d seized his moment, he would think. He’d done what it took to get where he had to get. He’d sacrificed something - _someone_ \- he’d cared for because his dream was more important than anything and anyone. He wasn't the bad guy: he’d done what he had to do, and he’d fought to keep what he’d earned, what he _deserved._

He’d thought of it in those terms for so long, until the past had caught up with him and that word - _murderer_ \- had been looming over his head ever since. But he couldn’t speak it aloud, especially not in front of the boy. If he did, he would be horrified enough to turn away from him and he… he didn’t want that. He’d dealt with enough scorn to last him an entire afterlife. Cheque would know the truth eventually and hate him for it like everyone else, but not yet. Not just _yet._

“... And a fake, I suppose,” he finished slowly, and crouched in front of the boy. “I did things I shouldn’t have, and paid for them with everything I had. Except my alebrijes. I need to get them back. I have… nothing else,” he added. For a few moments Cheque stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled - no, he _grinned_ \- at him, and picked up the hammer to hand it to him. Ernesto took it, blinking, and Cheque wrote on his whiteboard again.

YOU HAVE ME NOW. I’LL BE YOUR HOSTAGE. THEY DON’T KNOW I WAS WITH YOU.

This is not a game, Ernesto wanted to say, but once again words stayed stuck in his throat. Suddenly, the grinning boy in front of him was not Cheque at all.

 _“It will be fun! You act as a decoy and get their attention. If they see me, I’ll just--”_  
_“No one would fall for it, Héctor. This is going to have our names written all over it.”_  
_“Hey, if you let fear of retribution hold you back, you’ll never get anything done!”_  
_“... In other words, a really good prank is entirely worth being grounded for life?”_  
_“Absolutely!”_  
_“Point taken. Let’s do this.”_

He didn’t remember precisely which prank it had been about; he and Héctor had gotten themselves in so much trouble back in the day that the entire town referred to them as ‘those kids’ or ‘you two’, generally with a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes. Ernesto had liked that; it was some kind of recognition, at least, if only for being a troublemaker.

_I’ve come a long way since then. Upgraded to murder and all._

The laugh that left him was so bitter he could almost taste it, but Cheque seemed unaware of that. He just kept looking up at him as he stood, waiting for a reply.

_You have me now._

“Very well. Let’s do this,” Ernesto said. His ribcage ached, but he could ignore that for a while longer. That was as far as he could think, as far as his future went: _just a while longer._ Now at least he had a short-term goal to focus on, and it did help somewhat. He turned to the door with a frown, crossing his arms.

“He said they’re two floors down. I don’t suppose you know--” he began, only to trail off when he glanced back at the boy. He had crossed his arms, too, and was puffing out his chest, a focused frown on his face. Ernesto raised an eyebrow, or at least the ridge of bone that served as one. It didn’t take a genius to tell what he was doing.

“Are you supposed to be mimicking me?” he asked, gaining himself a look that said, very clearly: _duh_.

“You are amazingly annoying and I _do not_ pose like that,” Ernesto muttered, uncrossing his arms. Actually, the impression wasn’t half bad: there _was_ something familiar about it. Must be the tilt of his head, he thought. But he’d pull out his teeth one by one with pliers before admitting as much, so he settled for walking out of the room without a further word.

The sound of light footsteps and the hand grasping his coat as they walked silently towards the stairs were more welcome than he’d have liked to admit.

* * *

“Quick, this way!”

“Miguel, wait! Cheque--!”

“Socorro, there is no time--”

“But there is! We have time until dawn!”

“Not if Cheque’s great-great-grandmother fades before then! We can’t risk it!”

Miguel was aware, faintly, that his little sister was still protesting, trying to drag her feet - but all he could truly hear was the blood rushing in his ears, his own silent prayer for it not to be too late, _please don’t let it be too late._ This was worse than when his own life had been on the line, so much worse. If Socorro remained stuck there, what would he even do? How could he go back home alone, and face his family? How could he explain that little Socorro was never coming back? How could he go back _at all_ without her?

He struggled to keep the thought out of his mind and kept running up the stairs leading to the uppermost floor of what had been de la Cruz’s mansion, holding onto Socorro’s arm and with Mamá Imelda just behind them. Why did it _have_ to be the uppermost floor that those almost entirely forgotten retired to to fade away? Why couldn’t it be the ground floor?

“Miguel--”

“We’ll find him before dawn! I promise!” he exclaimed, and he meant it. He still remembered all too well how that man had tried to kill him by throwing him from the ledge; even though he knew he couldn’t kill Cheque a second time, the thought the poor kid was in his hands made him feel sick. He had to be terrified out of his mind. “I won’t let de la Cruz hurt him! Just come get the blessing, go home, and then we’ll-”

“MIGUEL! YOU’RE HURTING ME!” Socorro’s shriek was piercing and, worst of all, it was broken by a sob. Miguel stopped abruptly, turning and letting go of her arm. He stared, mouth dry and stomach clenching with guilt, as Socorro reached to rub her skeletal arm and let out a hiccupping sob just as Mamá Imelda caught up with her.

“I… I didn’t mean to--” he began, but Mamá Imelda spoke first.

“Socorro, Miguel is right,” she said, trying to sound stern, but worry was plain in her voice. “We need to you to get the blessing now. Don’t you want to go ho--”

 _“Of course I wanna go home! I wanna go home more than anything, but I can’t!”_ Socorro shrieked, yanking herself away from her touch, and suddenly she was crying in great braying whoops, eyes swimming with tears. Miguel froze, his own arm falling by his side, and for a few moments he could only stare, as did Mamá Imelda. In the end, it was her to talk first.

“Oh, Coco,” she said, crouching down to cup her cheek, wiping away some tears with her thumb. “Listen. Remember what I told you about shouldering too much responsibility? You’re doing that just now. You can and _must_ go home. No one expects you to do the impossible for--”

“But _I_ do!” Socorro protested, furiously wiping her eyes, but the tears kept coming and she spoke in a broken voice. “I’ll always know I didn’t do all I could! Cheque is still here and a _murderer_ got him and I _can’t_ go back until I know he’ll be okay!”

“Your family--” Mamá Imelda began, but didn’t get to add anything before Socorro stomped a foot and shook her head.

“He is family, too!” she snapped. “Abuelita said so! You said so! And… and even if you changed your mind, I didn’t! He’s my best friend! I can't leave him like this!”

 _Such a sweet sentiment at such a bad time,_ Héctor’s voice echoed somewhere in Miguel’s mind. Thinking back of that moment usually made him smile, but not now. His heart felt as though someone was squeezing it, and he was kneeling the next moment, holding onto his sister. There was boundless love and unspeakable terror, exasperation and a sort of fierce pride for the person his little sister was shaping up to be. He wanted to say all of that and he couldn’t, and he hoped the hug would convey at least some of it.

Instead of pulling back, Socorro clung back to him, shaking. “Please, Miguel! I can’t go back and leave him like this!” she sobbed. “I p-promised him I was gonna stick with him th-through thick and thin! His mamá left him behind and his abuela didn’t _want_ him and it wasn’t _fair_ and so I promised him! A-and if I have to leave him behind, then I must be sure he’s safe!”

“I know, Coquito. I know. But we need to go upstairs and--”

“No. It’s no use.” Héctor’s voice rang out from above them, unexpected as it was sudden. He looked up, all three of them did, to see him standing a few steps above on the staircase. He was holding his hat in his hands, and something about the way he avoided their gazes made a chill run up Miguel’s spine… and not only his own.

“Héctor…?” Mamá Imelda spoke, her voice full dread, and he dropped his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. She... couldn’t hold on long enough,” he said.

For a moment, the world seemed to blur in front of Miguel’s eyes. He forced himself to hang on, forced himself up on his feet. “And… isn’t there anyone else who could do it?” he asked, his voice so thin he hardly recognized it as his own. Even breathing was hard, like he was trying to suck in a river through a straw. “A… a sibling, a nephew, anyone…?”

That caused Héctor to finally meet his gaze, and set his jaw. “Yes. Not all is lost. There is someone else who can give Socorro the blessing to go home. But--”

“I am not going until we find Cheque!” Socorro spoke up, pulling away from Miguel. She crossed her arms and stared up at him, defiant despite the tears still drying on her face. “I need to make sure he’s okay!”

“We will, nenita,” Héctor said, coming down the steps, and crouched in front of her. “We’ll find your friend, I promise. But right now, we need to find Ernesto de la Cruz. He--”

“He’s the one who kidnapped Cheque!” Socorro exclaimed, causing Héctor to blink.

“He… what?” he repeated, as though his mind was refusing to process what he’d just heard. He looked up at Mamá Imelda. “Ernesto… took the boy?”

His wife nodded, eyes darkening with barely restrained fury. “He did, that beast! He found him first! We found where he was hiding, but he escaped and took Ezequiel with him. He must have known that Socorro needs the boy’s blessing. We alerted the police, and as soon as Pepita is back with the rest of the family, we’ll-- Héctor? Are you all right? Héctor!”

Miguel could only stare, speechless, as Héctor suddenly began laughing, and stood. It was a slightly unhinged laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. His gaze shifted to Socorro, who just looked back at him in equal confusion and slowly shook her head. No help there, then.

“Er… Papá Héctor? Is everything okay?”

“Hah! Taken by Ernesto of all people!” Héctor snorted, his shoulders shaking. “And now the police is looking for him?”

Mamá Imelda frowned. “Sí. Care to explain what’s so funny about all this?”

For a few moments there was no reply: Héctor just stood still and pressed a hand over his eyes, as though trying to recollect his thoughts. Finally, he sighed. “This,” he said slowly, pulling down his hand, “can either make things so much easier or so much harder. I am still not sure which.”

“What do you mean? Are you done speaking in riddles?” Imelda was asking, but Héctor had no time to reply: a sudden thought struck Miguel, and he spoke first.

“Wait. If you didn’t _know_ de la Cruz has him... why did you say we need to find him?”

Héctor looked back at him and gave him a small, tired sort of smile before giving him the reply part of him had already guessed, and dreaded.

“Because unless Ezequiel begins to talk in the next few hours, Ernesto is the only one who can send Socorro home.”


	9. The Trapped Voice

“Ruff! Rrrr! Ruff!”

The growls and yaps of a tiny Chihuahua were almost lost in the confusion. There were cages with trapped animals lining all the walls of the room they were in, and there were more below them, where the pit was. Ezequiel could hear other caged animals screeching, barking, hissing, grumbling, crowing. How many animals, alebrijes and otherwise, had those people trapped to make fight in the pit?

Part of him wanted to know, to open every single cage, but he knew he couldn’t do that. They were tight on time. Maybe they could get someone else to do it later, once they were well away. What was going on there couldn’t be legal.

There was more barking, then a yelp when the man crouching among boxes and crates moved in suddenly. “Got you! Finally! Oh, shut up!” He stood, holding a squirming and snapping Diablo in his grasp. Holding him at arm’s length, he walked up to one of the cages lined up against the wall - a very small cage on top of a bigger, empty one, with three more small alebrijes yapping furiously.

“End of the vacation! Now back you go in the cag… wait. Uno, dos, tres… huh? They’re all here. Where did _you_ come fro-- ow! You stupid chucho! Bite me again and I swear--”

“I have to correct you there. He’s neither stupid nor a mutt. Not that I’d expect the likes of _you_ to recognize a purebred.”

Almost drowned out by his alebrijes’ frantic barks, Neto’s downright _offended_ voice would have made Ezequiel roll his eyes if not for the fact he had an act to keep up. And he did keep it up: when Fabricio turned abruptly he was staring back at him with wide eyes, the perfect terrified hostage in the clutches of a criminal.

“You!” Fabricio blurted out, and seemed about to step forward. Neto tightened his grip on Ezequiel and raised the hammer.

“One more step, and this boy will have a bigger headache than your amigo upstairs,” he warned. “I will smash his skull in if I have to. You _know_ I will.”

They hadn’t been so sure that would really make the man pause, because after all he was just a random boy who had showed at the door, but it _did_ work. Fabricio froze, gritting his teeth. His eyes moved from Ernesto to Ezequiel, who looked back at him with the most terrified and imploring expression he could manage. In the end the man let out a growl of frustration, but did not move. “It will be all right, kid,” he reassured him, and Ezequiel almost felt a twinge of guilt… just _almost,_ because they had taken Neto and caged his alebrijes.

“Such a big man when you get to threaten _children,_ aren’t you?” Fabricio was going on. “A coward at heart. What have you done to Bartolo, de la--” he added, only to trail off when Neto suddenly yanked Cheque closer and spoke, lifting the hammer another fraction.

“Shut up and let me do the talking. As you said, the police is coming and we’re tight on time. Put my alebrije down, then open that cage and let my _other_ alebrijes out.”

He did, and within moments they were surrounded by yapping, tiny dogs. It took all of Ezequiel’s willpower to keep his Terrified Hostage Act up, but he managed somehow… and a sudden noise coming from above sure helped making him feel scared: that of a heavy metal door being opened. He heard it, Neto heard it… and so did Fabricio.

“PEDRO! OVER HERE! HE--” he began yelling, but he didn’t get to finish the scream: Neto threw the hammer at him the next moment and hit him in the face, knocking his head right off his neck. It rolled into the pit below, where trapped animals kept howling. His body moved around, blindly searching for it, and it was kind of funny, but they didn’t stay to watch.

They _couldn’t_ stay to watch: they needed to find an exit, and fast.

* * *

“Ooof. I’m just not fast enough to keep up with those two!”

“That makes two of us, mi amor.”

Julio’s remark came as nothing short of a  wheeze, and caused Coco - who had given up on running and was just waking as quickly as she could - to turn. Poor Julio had never been much for exercise; had he been alive, she was sure he would be all red-faced the way he would get when they danced together, before she had introduced him to her mother and her golden rule on music.

He hadn't been much of a dancer back in the day, but that had hardly mattered: the way he would push himself you keep up with her and find an excuse to share a few words without imposing - _that_ was what had won her over.

 _He went on and on about this dancing señorita he’d seen for weeks before he tried to approach you,_ Rosita had confided to her once, during a late night up preparing for the upcoming wedding. _He wanted to talk to you that first time, but then he turned away and ran, can you believe it? I even offered to talk to you first and maybe it was actually a threat, but it worked! I am so happy he didn't give up. I always wanted a sister, and sister in law is as close at it gets!_

And they had really been like sisters, from the very start. Rosita had been at the front row at the wedding, crying her eyes out from the moment Coco had begun walking down the aisle, with Tío Óscar at one side and Tío Felipe at the other. The wedding had been simple but wonderful, and it almost made up for the one absence no one spoke of. Almost.

But they had made up for that, when she and Julio had renewed their vows after she’d arrived in the Land of the Dead. Her papá had done a wonderful job, walking her down the aisle like he should have done so many years ago, even though he was trying _so_ hard not to weep and failing spectacularly at it.

Smiling a little at the memory, she held out her arm to link it with her husband’s just as they walked out of the arrival station, past a few agents. “I guess we can take it easy. We don’t even know where to look for them right now, and I’m sure they’re already doing all that they can. Papá wouldn’t have taken off like that if he hadn’t--”

The crackle of static caused her to trail off as the radio at the belt of a nearby agent came to life. The voice that came from the other side was distorted and faint, but the words were still audible… and they caused both her and Julio to stop dead - so to speak - in their tracks.

“All available agents to the abandoned barrio. Ernesto de la Cruz has been sighted. We believe he has a hostage. All available agents to the abandoned barrio.”

_De la Cruz._

Watching the agents leave quickly, Coco was faintly aware of the fact Julio had placed a hand on her shoulder. She wanted to turn to him, tell him she was all right, but she wasn’t, not really. Of course she’d known that her papá’s murderer was still hiding out there somewhere. Of course she’d wanted him found; knowing that her father had died so young while trying to come back to her had been a blow, but knowing that he had been murdered by his best friend - a man she remembered, if vaguely, calling _Tío Neto_ when she was very, very little and he could pick her up easily with one arm - had been even worse.

All that their family had been through had been his fault. Her mother’s sleepless nights working while trying to provide for her, her own crying at night while missing her papá, the ban on music, growing up without a father, all that _he_ had missed out - the good and the bad, the weddings and funerals and all the memories they never got to make together - had been caused by one man with a vial of poison, someone who looked at her father and saw nothing but a songbook. Someone who had looked at her great-grandson in the eye and had tried to murder him, too, to keep his filthy secret from ever coming out in the open.

The only thing that had kept anger from choking her had been the sheer happiness of having her father back, of getting to catch up with him, to start healing what had been torn apart.

_Don’t let it bother you, mija. We are both here now, and Miguel is safely home. We can make memories now. Don’t let him take another smile from you._

And she hadn’t, really; she’d pushed all thoughts of that murderer in the back of her mind and focused on what had been found again rather than on what had been lost. Coco had almost forgotten all about Ernesto de la Cruz. Until now, and anger was not what followed: dread did. Why had he reappeared now? Why that night of all nights, with Miguel and Socorro there? Socorro, where _was_ she? They said he had a hostage, what was happening?

“It might have nothing to do with our familia,” Julio was saying, his grip on her shoulder tightening gently. “Little Coquito was with your mother and Pepita when we left. She could hardly be any safer, and your papá knew who could give her a blessing. She might have already be home by now, and Miguelito too.”

Coco forced herself to smile back. “I hope so. I would have liked to say goodbye before she left, but… oh, I really hope she’s back home!”

Julio took her hand, and seemed about to add something else, but he shut his mouth and recoiled instead when a sound of huge flapping wings suddenly reached them, and his hat was almost blown off his head. Coco turned to see Papita landing in front of them, graceful as ever, and crouching down in a clear invitation to get on her back. No purring, no head butting, no nothing - just a look that told her, loud and clear, that she was in a hurry.

 _Something is wrong,_ Coco thought again, and wasted no time in climbing on the alebrije’s back, with Julio right behind her and dread settling in her chest cavity like a stone.

* * *

Ernesto hadn’t felt so alive, so to speak, in eight years.

Ever since his fall from grace, he’d been in a state of hopeless despair, and occasionally - if he drank enough, which honestly wasn’t so _occasional_ \- in a sort of stupor that made him think that maybe it wasn’t real, maybe it was all a nightmare he’d wake up from. There had been anger, too, but that had dulled quickly. With no hope for relief, his Final Death unbearably far away, he had eventually settled for bitter helplessness whenever sober.

So, as he ran after his alebrijes through the hallways and rooms of the old warehouse - something about it reminded him of when he and Héctor were boys, when they had just pulled the best of pranks and ran away from retribution with yells of victory that soon turned into proper gritos - the rush of triumph was very much welcome. Even more than a drink.

Of course, it was also short-lived. The window his alebrijes led them to could be opened from the inside, and it would make the perfect escape route if they had the time to climb up and, in his case, squirm some to get through... only that the footsteps approaching quickly suggested that they did not have enough time. That called for a plan B and, as it turned out, his plan B was just a few feet to his left, in the form of a broom closet.

With the sound of footsteps getting closer, Ernesto didn’t waste time explaining Cheque his idea: he just threw open the window, grabbed him by the arm, and opened the broom closet. His alebrijes ran in first, then he did - and if there was any resistance from the boy, he didn’t notice it. He was in too much of a hurry, and for good reason: he had just closed the door when the running footsteps reached the room, and a woman’s voice muttered a curse.

“Hijo de-- The window! He must have climbed out. He can’t have gone far. Get moving!”

“Why don’t we let the police deal with him? We called them, we should still get--”

“Forget the reward! He made us look like idiots - this is _personal_ now!”

Ernesto breathed out a long sigh of relief when he heard steps running out of the room and down the hallway, and he allowed himself to relax a fraction. It was pitch black and rather cramped in there, the faint luminescence coming from his alebrijes not really enough to let him see a thing, but that hardly mattered. They would just need to stay in there long enough to be sure they were off somewhere else, and then they’d… they… couldn’t the boy be still?

“Stop moving,” he whispered, but Cheque didn’t seem to listen, and Ernesto realized what was going on only when he reached to put an arm around his shoulders. He wasn’t _moving:_ he was shaking violently and drawing in sharp breaths, teeth chattering and bones rattling. He was panicking, Ernesto realized, whether for the closed space or the dark or both.

_If he could, he would be screaming his head off._

There was another shudder, and then Cheque made a dash for the door, or tried to. Ernesto managed to hold him back and drag him away from it, further against the wall; he couldn’t let him burst out of there, or they would be found for sure if anybody was still lingering by.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, speaking as loudly as he dared… which was not very loud at all. In the dark, he reached to grasp the boy’s head. His hand slipped against his neck vertebrae instead, and it turned out to be a mistake: he jerked away, shaking like he’d just stepped on a high voltage cable, and Ernesto half-expected his bones to come apart at the joints. “Cheque, can you hear me? It’s all right. Cheque? Cheque!”

There was no reply, of course, and suddenly the boy stopped shaking. He went entirely limp in his grasp, a dead weight in every sense of the word, and didn’t move anymore - leaving Ernesto to hold onto his unconscious form in stunned silence, wondering what in the world had just happened to him.

* * *

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Miguel repeated, reaching up to rub his temples. Behind him, the rest of the family - Pepita had found each of them and brought them together before taking off again to find Coco and Julio - seemed to be about as taken aback. Héctor was not at all surprised to see Imelda was the first one to recover, a look of utter disgust on her face.

“That’s something you’d expect that _pig_ to do,” she spat. “Get someone in trouble and then skip town!”

 _He didn’t know,_ Héctor thought, but he said nothing. He had far more pressing matters to think of than actually _defending_ Ernesto, and besides… well. He had little doubt he would have left Santa Cecilia without a second thought even if he’d known. After all, Héctor himself had left his child behind and he still couldn’t quite forgive himself for it. Yes, he had always meant to come back… but he _had_ left.

_But I tried to fix that. Oh, did I try._

“It sounds to me like getting himself out of the picture was the best thing he could do for everyone, to be fair,” Victoria muttered drily, practical as always, and Imelda nodded. They could be so alike that, sometimes, watching them felt almost eerie. Victoria had taken more after after grandmother than Coco ever had.

“True enough. I can hardly imagine anyone wishing to spend their life with that… _that_ ,” Imelda spat, causing Miguel to shrug.

“Well, I used to think _you_ did, Mamá Imelda.”

“And I have yet to fully forgive you for it, Miguel.”

“Heh. Sorry?”

“But that means Cheque is safe, right?” Socorro spoke, causing all eyes to turn to her. She was holding onto Miguel’s hand. “I mean, if de la Cruz finds out he’s his great-grandson...”

“Great-great-grandson,” Felipe corrected her.

“Yes, that. If he finds out, and maybe he already did, then… then he wouldn’t hurt him, right? He’s family.”

A heavy silence followed her words, and Héctor could see that frail hope fade from her face when everyone around her shook their head in silence.

“Oh, Coquito. I wouldn’t count on that,” Rosita said, almost apologetically.

“Nothing is sacred to that man,” Victoria agreed. “Not friendship nor family. He threw Miguel in a sinkhole to die even when he still thought they were related.”

“He… what?” Socorro gasped, and turned back to her brother, eyes wide as saucers. It occurred to Héctor that they had not filled her in on _everything_ that had happened eight years earlier; there had simply been no time to. “He tried to kill _you,_ too?”

Miguel set his jaw. It was plain to see that he really hadn’t wanted Socorro to find out just in how much danger he’d been to never come home. Had that happened, Socorro would have lived without ever knowing her brother. The mere thought chilled Héctor to the marrow.

“But he couldn’t,” Miguel was going on. “He didn’t. We’re not going to let him do anything to Ezequiel, either,” he said, placing a hand on her head. “I promise we’ll find them.”

“And then he _will_ give you his blessing to go home, or so help him,” Imelda added, her eyes ablaze, pacing back and forth like a caged jaguar. “I still can’t believe the police failed to find him for so long,” she added, and Héctor sighed.

“To be fair, no one goes to Shantytown anymore. It still has a bad rep. So it’s not a surprise that no one spotted him--”

“Héctor.” Imelda’s voice was suddenly cold and sharp as a knife, and it was only then that Héctor realized he had made a mistake. She stopped pacing to stare at him, eyes pinning him in place; Miguel and Socorro looked confused, but the rest of the family had noticed too, if the twin’s widening eyes, Rosita’s hand flying to her mouth and Victoria’s piercing gaze were anything to go by.

“I never _said_ that he was in Shantytown,” Imelda was saying slowly, placing her hands on her hips. “I never mentioned _where_ Pepita had brought us. Care to explain how you knew?”

Héctor swallowed, and met her gaze. Beneath the anger, there was a spark of something else - the plea to give her an answer, any answer, other than the one she had just guessed. Except that he couldn't do it. It would mean lying to her, and he was never going to do that.

“... I saw him there, once. Twice,” he corrected himself. “Only from afar the first time, and the next he was so drunk--”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. “You _knew_ where that rat was hiding and told no one!”

“Imelda, it was years ago--”

“You knew where he was _all along,_ and you never told us! You never told me!” Imelda snapped, and the sense of betrayal in her voice was so, so much worse than her anger. “Why didn’t you report him? Was it out of pity for that monster? For the sake of a friendship he destroyed? Was _that_ still so important, after all that he’s done to us?”

“No! No, it wasn’t that! I’m sorry, I….” Héctor choked on his words, taking off his hat and nervously fiddling with it. She was right to be furious, of course she was, and he sort of wished a cenote would open up beneath his feet. He looked down, unable to face her, or Miguel, or Socorro, or… anyone else. “I just… Coco arrived and I sort of forgot all about seeing him, and when I saw him again… he was hardly even coherent. He was no threat to our familia, there was nothing he could do to harm us ever aga--”

“But he _can_ now, and that’s what he’s trying to do!” Imelda all but growled, taking a step forward. Miguel tried to pull her back, to say something, but she shook his hand away. “If he’d been apprehended then, we wouldn’t be in this mess now! He wouldn’t have taken the boy and we’d know just where to find him! He’s trying to tear our family apart again, and _you_ served him the chance to do it on a silver platter!”

“Imelda, I… I just wanted to forget about--”

“Look at me,” she demanded, coming to stand right before him. “Look at me in the eye and tell me it _wasn’t_ out of pity that you decided to leave him be.”

With what felt like a terrible effort, Héctor did look at her in the eyes, opened his mouth, and realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her, and he knew just now that yes, denying pity had been a factor in his decision not to reveal Ernesto’s hiding place would be just that. A lie.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself saying. Even speaking was difficult, shame threatening to choke him. How could he just keep doing that, screwing up time and time again? “I… never thought something like this could happen. I’d have dragged him to the authorities myself if I’d imagined. You are the most important thing in the world,” he added, daring to glance up. Imelda stared at him for a few moments, then something in her gaze softened, just barely.

“Mamá Imelda?” Miguel called out, taking a step forward. “Please. He… he couldn’t know. And we have little time as it is. Let’s just find them. Cheque must be scared out of his mind.”

Imelda sighed. “Very well. We’ll find them both,” he said, but the look she gave Héctor told him loud and clear the incident was far from closed. “As soon as Pepita returns with Coco and Julio, we’ll--”

Her words were covered by a loud _whoosh,_ and by an familiar voice calling out for them.

“Mamá! Papá!” Pepita landed among them the next moment, with Coco and Julio on her back. Coco slid easily off one wing, while Julio clambered down the huge jaguar’s side. “Sorry it took a while,” she said. “Papá and Miguel are a lot faster than we are. Did Socorro-- oh. Hola, cielita. I suppose your presence here answers my question, doesn’t it?” she added, and Héctor shook his head.

“Maricarmen couldn’t hold on long enough. To make a _very_ long story short, Ernesto is the boy’s great-great-grandfather--”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I’m getting that a lot lately. I wish I was, but now. Anyway, Ernesto has him now.”

That caused Coco to blink and turn to her mother. “... What _happened_ while we were on the other-- no, nevermind that. Priorities,” she muttered, reaching to up rub her forehead. “So, de la Cruz has the boy _and_ is his blood relative.”

Héctor nodded. “Yes. I don’t know if Ernesto aware of it, but he is the only one left in the Land of the Dead who can send Socorro back home now. Unless Ezequiel manages to speak, that is. Bottom line is, we need to find them both. But we have no idea where we could even start to track him down, or--”

“The abandoned barrio.”

“Huh?” Several pairs of eyes turned to Julio, who was slowly stepping away from Pepita. Coco seemed the only one to know exactly what he was talking about.

“He’s right. De la Cruz was sighted there tonight with a hostage - at the abandoned barrio by the poisoned river,” she said, and shrugged and their questioning glances. “We overheard someone talking about it. As far as I could tell, they were sending all available agents in the area. We didn’t stay to listen, though - Pepita found us almost right away after that.”

Imelda was the first one to speak, as always. She nodded, her jaw set. “Then that’s where we’re going. Pepita will be able to track him down once she finds a trail,” she said. “If the police gets to him first, there will be bureaucracy to go through and we have no _time_ for that.”

That was a tame way to put it: what she really meant, Héctor knew, was that once he was in police custody they may not be able to get any blessing at all. There was no legal way they could force him to give a blessing if he didn’t want to, and authorities wouldn’t let them ignore such technicalities - especially as de la Cruz was not responsible for Socorro’s situation.

Worse yet, Héctor suspected that there was no way _at all_ to get a blessing out of him against his will. A blessing was a _blessing,_ something bestowed upon another soul willingly, by someone who _meant_ it. If they twisted Ernesto’s arm behind his back to get it, it would be just a string of words. Would it work? Héctor doubted it, but that was not the right moment to discuss as much with the others. They had to find him, and then… then he’d see.

_Maybe it won’t be too hard. Maybe he’ll accept if we drop all charges against him._

“Good. We’re all going, then,” Coco was saying. “Socorro, dear, I won’t tell you to stay here because I _know_ how it would go. You and Miguel stay close to Pepita at all times.”

Something about the notion - his daughter being _anywhere_ close to de la Cruz - made Héctor feel queasy… and Coco must have guessed, too, because the next moment she was looking up at him. Everyone always said that she took after him, and for the most part it was true, but then there were moments like that one - when he’d look at her as saw Imelda in the tilt of her head, in her furrowed brow, in the line of her mouth.

“He was the reason why you couldn’t be in my life,” she said, her voice calm but unwavering, like velvet-covered steel. “And he tried to kill my great-grandson, too. Maybe it is about time I give him a piece of my mind. I won’t let him be the reason why my grandson and his wife never get to see _their_ girl grow up,” she added, and it settled the matter, really.

There was nothing Héctor could possibly retort to that.

* * *

“Hey! Wake up! No, no, no, don’t do this! Don’t you dare die on me! I told you to go easy on that stuff, goddammit! I’m not taking the blame for this!”

There’s yelling, the sound of smacks, breaking glass, then running water. Somewhere outside, in the distance, there are the bangs of fireworks. It’s Día de los Muertos, his mamá explained, and maybe that’s why she chose today to almost die.

Almost. But he doesn’t know it, now. He wanders into the living room, awakened by all the noise, to see her on the ground like a broken doll, eyes glassy and skin ashen grey, with a red handprint on her cheek. Dead. She is dead, he is sure of it.

“Mamá? MAMÁ!” He kneels on the ground, next to a discarded syringe, and tries to shake her but can hardly move her. He’s too small. There is foam coming out of her mouth, and her skin is cold and clammy. It’s like she’s made of rubber instead of flesh and blood, and that’s what scares him the most. _“Mamá!”_

“Shut up! Stop screaming!” Someone snaps, grabs his arm to yank him back, and his shoulder hurts. A hand presses on his mouth, hard, and he can hardly breathe. He panics and struggles, but it’s no use. His screams can’t get past that hand. “Shut it! I’ll help your mamá, all right? I’ll help the dumb puta. Just be quiet! You’ll get the goddamn police here!”

He’s not quiet, can’t be quiet. He tries to bite and holds out his free arm for his mother, but he’s already being dragged across the room. It’s a doomed struggle, a boy of two against a grown man. The door of the broom closet is opened, and Cheque is thrown in. He tries to sit up and then a hand is on his throat, a knee is pressing down on his chest, and the man is glaring down at him, eyes bloodshot and spittle at his mouth.

Somewhere not too far away Miguel Rivera is singing his heart out for his family, living and dead alike, and tiny Socorro is clapping her hands at the music, but Ezequiel’s world is suddenly wrapped in silence. The hand is tight around his throat, the knee heavy on his chest. He can’t breathe and his sight is blurred. There is a tiny noise like that of a scared kitten, and he never realizes it’s coming from him. It is the last noise he’ll ever make.

“Don’t make a sound,” the man snarls, breaking the overwhelming silence. His face and voice fill the entire world. “One more noise and I’ll fucking kill both of you. You got that? Nod if you got it. _Good._ Now shut up.”

The hand is gone, the weight is gone, and he still struggles to suck in each breath. The closet door slams shut, a key turns, and he’s left in darkness. There are more sounds on the other side - more smacking, muttered curses, splashing water and someone being dragged across the floor - but on his end, throughout the entire night, there is only silence. He stays huddled on the floor, eyes shut and hands pressed on his ears, barely daring to breathe.

Not one sound. No more noise.

Morning will come, then afternoon, but he won’t know that until the door opens and his mamá will be there - pale and wide-eyed, her skin cold, but alive. The man will be gone, never to be seen again. She’ll hold him close and apologize over and over, swear on her life that it’s the last time and maybe she’ll mean it, but she lost that battle long ago.

She’ll sing Cielito Lindo for him again, and weep when he’s unable to sing along with her like he used to do. He’ll cry with her too, but quietly. Then he’ll bounce back like he always does, and he’ll find his smile again, but not his voice, never his voice. That was left behind in a broom closet, and he doesn’t have the key to open it again. He doesn’t want to.

Not one sound. No more noise.

* * *

“Cheque? Wake up.”

_No. No no no no. Don’t make noise. No noise. He’ll kill us._

“Come on, muchacho, it’s all right. We’re out of there.”

There was a voice he couldn’t quite place, the sensation of being carried and then leaned down on something flat and dusty, and someone brushing hair off his forehead. His mamá did that, too; she liked stroking his hair because it was thick and glossy black just like hers. She’d done that when she’d left him in care, too, brushed back his hair and cradled his face.

_I am so sorry, cielito. It’s for the best, they’ll look after you better than I could. Your mamá loves you so, so much. Promise me you’ll be good._

He’d wanted to promise, he really had, but he couldn’t force his voice out and he didn’t know how to write yet. So he had cried and his mamá had tried to sing to him, but she was crying, too, and in the end all of the weeping had been too much and he’d fallen asleep in her arms. When he’d opened his eyes again, someone else was holding him and his mother was gone.

“Can you hear me, niño? Wake up.”

In the end it wasn’t the voice as much as the _whining_ to bring him back to consciousness, the sensation of something small and soft against him him, tiny wet noses pressing against his face. With what felt like a terrible effort, Ezequiel opened his eyes. For a few moments he could only blink, his sight still adjusting. When it did he found himself staring up at an old ceiling, its paint almost gone. He was lying inside some run-down old house, on dusty carpeting beneath a broken window - and someone was kneeling over him, blocking out the light coming from a streetlight outside.

“Oh, finally! You picked the wrong moment to take a na--”

Fear struck before rational thought could, and Ezequiel lurched in a sitting position, trying to scramble backwards, only be stopped by a wall behind him. The man pulled back, clearly surprised, and so did his alebrijes. It was only then that Ezequiel recognized him, truly remembered where and _when_ he was.

The man with bloodshot eyes was gone, the closet was gone, his mamá was gone, his _voice_ was gone. It had all been left behind in the Land of the Living. He was dead, even Socorro - _Socorro_ of all people! - had turned her back to him, and he was on his own.

Or was he?

“Cheque?” Neto was calling out, his voice careful, and had he been paying enough attention Ezequiel would have realized that he was more than just worried at his reaction upon seeing him: for a moment he’d looked almost hurt, like the way he’d recoiled away from him had been a physical blow. But he didn’t notice, because the next moment relief was all he could feel. Neto could have left him in the broom closet and he hadn’t; he’d panicked and passed out at the worst possible time, and he had picked him up and carried him away to safety.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Neto was saying slowly. “Listen, whatever you may have heard about me back there--” he added, but he had no time to say anything else before Ezequiel stood and threw himself forward. Neto reared back for the second time in a minute, as surprised by the hug as he’d been by his fear - then Ezequiel felt his frame relax, and a hand came down to ruffle his hair. For once, he didn’t mind. “Ay, you scared me half to death, niño. Sort of. You know what I mean,” Neto said, and after another moment of hesitation he held him back. “I don’t presume you want to talk about… whatever _that_ was?”

Ezequiel shook his head, face pressed against Neto’s coat. The memory was fading away like a dream, and that was all right, that was what he wanted. He tried to summon the sound of his mother’s singing, but Neto was speaking, and he clung to that instead. His voice was so much closer, so much more real, and he found he liked it.

“All right. Fair enough. I guess we all have our skeletons in the closet,” Neto muttered, and the pun was so _terrible_ Ezequiel couldn’t hold back a silent snicker, causing him to chuckle in turn when he felt his shoulders and sides shaking. “Ha-ah! I _knew_ I was going to get a laugh out of you at some point,” he muttered, sounding almost giddy. “I have a skele-ton of those,” he added, and Ezequiel let out a puff of air that was the closest he could manage to a groan.

“Oh, deny it all you want, I felt you laughing. You’ve made a _grave_ mistake. I’ve still got a _bone_ to pick with you over your idea of constructive criticism,” Neto went on, and laughed when he felt Ezequiel snickering again. He stood, picking him up in the same motion before sighing. When he spoke again, all amusement was gone from his voice.

“We need to keep moving, at least until dawn. There will be more trying to track us down soon, and at least one of them knows you’re not my hostage, so we can’t count on that trick again. It wouldn’t stop them.”

Ezequiel probably didn’t _need_ to be carried, but he felt so much safer like that, so he didn’t protest; he still felt too worn-out to do much of anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a niggling question - why did Neto say they needed to keep moving ‘until dawn’? What would happen at dawn? - but he was too tired to think. He needed to rest for a minute.

He leaned his head on Neto’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and just let him do the thinking for both of them.

* * *

Somewhere far away, a bell was tolling. Again.

Ernesto was _seriously_ getting sick of it, but he ignore the spike in his constant headache - which either meant he needed a drink or that the crack the second bell had made in the back of his skull hadn’t healed quite right; alcohol usually fixed it either way - and forced himself to count the tolls, hiding in an alley. Three hours, he thought, only three hours to sunrise.

_It’s not too far away. Three more hours, and then… then…_

Ernesto’s mind refused to go there, to what would happen _next,_ when he would be caught at last; with Shantytown no longer safe to return to, he knew that his days on the run were over. Maybe he should just walk into a police station and hand himself over as soon as the sun rose, before the Riveras got him.

Whatever the authorities had in mind for him - and what _could_ they do? Throw him in a cell to rot until his Final Death came? It was just about what he’d been doing in Shantytown, anyway - would be nothing compared to what the Riveras could and _would_ do to him once the night ended and took their precious Socorro’s life with it.

They would be devastated for sure, Miguel most of all, and that would give him at least _some_ satisfaction. It was the most he could hope for, at that point; bitter satisfaction before he was thrown to spend the rest of his afterlife in some hole.

 _Why, I thought I was doing you a favor,_ Ernesto would say. _You wanted to be with your familia so much. Besides, the boy can’t talk. He couldn’t have saved her if he’d tried all night._

The thought of the boy caused the sneer that had begun to form on Ernesto’s face to fade. Cheque was small and light, so easy to carry, but for a moment he felt as heavy as the bell that had crushed him. At that point, was it even a weight worth carrying?

_I could leave him here. He almost certainly couldn’t give that blessing even if he wanted to._

That was true and yes, he supposed he could leave him behind. He could let him be found and learn the truth, let him try and fail to send his friend home - but the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Not yet, he thought, knowing there was little to no logic in it. Not just _yet._

 _You have me now,_ he’d written on the whiteboard. That foolish, foolish child. Trusting him had been a mistake, and he would find out as much very soon. He would know that he’d been manipulated, and he would join the rest of the Land of the Dead in hating his guts. He and the Riveras could bond again over it, he supposed.

Ernesto had gotten a taste of _that_ earlier, when Cheque had flinched away from him, making him fear he’d understood who he was dealing with. He hadn’t liked it at all… and he’d liked the relief that had followed even less, because he knew that next time - in a matter of _hours_ \- there would be none. Cheque would _know,_ and the game would be up.

He should have gotten used to it by now, after years of scorn and hatred and ridicule, and he’d become good at telling himself he didn’t care anymore. Yet only a few hours with one soul who did not know what he’d done, and even _liked_ him, had been enough to expose it as the lie it was. He hadn’t gotten used to it and probably never would; that wretched existence was still as unbearable as it had been on the first day, and nothing would change that.

The sweetest revenge in the world couldn’t give him back his reputation, the life he desperately wished to return to, and he’d known that from the start. He was trying to strike back at the Riveras in the only way he could not because there was anything he could hope to gain from it, but because had nothing left to lose. That, too, he knew well.

Except that, as he moved silently from alley to alley with his alebrijes at his heel and a half-asleep boy in his arms he seemed unable to let go of, he couldn’t entirely ignore the nagging feeling that maybe he did, after all, have something yet to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a quick note on why Socorro cannot just go back home with her family's blessing - I have been asked that a few times and it's really about time I put it in the notes!
> 
> The way I understood it, Miguel needed his family's blessing because he was cursed after stealing something that belonged to a family member on the Day of the Dead.  
> Here's the line from the script: "Well, since it's _a family matter,_ the way to undo a _family_ curse is to get your family's blessing."
> 
> They're no talking about just "a curse", but a "family curse". It worked (and kept up the huge misunderstanding over the identity of Miguel's great-great-grandfather) because the guitar belonged to Héctor, and not de la Cruz, who had stolen it himself and was not its rightful owner. I figure that, if the guitar had really belonged to de la Cruz, Miguel might have actually needed his blessing to go home. It would make sense for the curse to be broken by the one wronged, or their family - not just by the family of the thief, which would be... a little too convenient. In Miguel's case in the movie, they just happened to be both. 
> 
> So in this scenario, Miguel would be fine because he got himself cursed by taking something from Coco's grave; he can go back with his family's blessing. But Socorro took something from the grave of someone who is no way related to her, and her family cannot send her back with their blessing - they have nothing to do with the person whose belonging was stolen. It is not, as the movie puts it, "a family matter". She needs to have it from the one whose grave she stole from, or his family.


	10. The Darkest Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a struggle and it got longer than expected, but it was fun to write.  
> At this point you might have guessed that me saying ‘it was fun to write’ means ‘this absolutely sucked for every single character involved’.

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“Tell me about it. I’m getting goosebumps.”

“We don’t have any skin, Felipe.”

“If we _had_ skin, I’d be getting goosebumps.”

“I can confirm  _I_  am getting goosebumps, for one,” Miguel muttered. That place was dreary, at lot more than Shantytown had been, at least when he had seen it. There had been people there, and some laughter despite everything; the abandoned barrio, however, was not only silent and full of buildings in ruins: it was also dark, with very few street lights working.

It probably was complete deserted most days, but as Pepita brought them there Miguel had seen from above that there were officers in the streets, looking into abandoned building after abandoned building - looking for de la Cruz, obviously. They had avoided them, and landed someplace where they clearly hadn’t started looking yet.

“We have to find him before the police does, so no point in searching with them,” Mamá Imelda had said, and she was right. Only that, as he stood at the banks of a river with such murky water it looked almost black, Miguel wished they had started looking somewhere else.

“If he’s around here, Pepita will find a trail,” Mamá Imelda was saying. “But if we split up to cover more ground… Miguel? Are you listening?”

Miguel opened his mouth to reply, but for a few moments he was unable to say a word, as though his mouth had suddenly become too heavy to move. He blinked a few times, trying to make sure his eyes were not tricking him, and took a slow step back. “Guys?” he called out. “Guys, step away from the river.”

“Why? What is--”

“GET BACK!” Miguel shouted, and bolted away just on time: the next moment the _thing_ he had seen in the water sprang out of the river, jaws snapping mere inches away from him. There were shouts, a couple of cries as the family reared back and the huge snake hissed and coiled up to strike again, but Miguel saw none of it: all that he could see was Socorro, staring at the rogue alebrije like a hare caught in the headlights, and he scooped her up, ready to bolt with her.

But the next moment there was a roar, huge paws pounding the ground, and the snake didn’t get to strike again. When Miguel turned after several steps, Socorro still in his arms, he saw the two alebrijes locked in a vicious struggle.

The snake’s coils were wrapped around Pepita’s midsection, but she had managed to sink her claws in its body, her teeth clenched little below the beast’s head. Miguel could tell that it wasn’t a battle as much as it was a matter of endurance: one of them would give in sooner or later… and Pepita’s back legs were beginning to buckle. Dante threw himself at the snake, too, tried to bite it, but the beast didn’t even seem to feel his teeth, and its coils wrapped tighter around Pepita.

“Get away from here! Quick!” Mamá Imelda was ordering, but she stayed where she was, as though unable to leave her alebrije behind, and Héctor stayed by her side, wildly looking around for something, anything he could use as a weapon - but it was not needed.

A sudden whistle cut through the air, so loud that it made Miguel’s ears hurt. He bit back a cry, and Socorro yelped in surprise in his arms. Not far from them, the twins were pressing their hands over the side of each other’s head, where their ears should have been, and Dante was yelping painfully.

“Look! It’s retreating!” Mamá Coco’s cry reached Miguel’s aching eardrums moments before the hiss did. Before them the snake was retreating back into the river, hissing furiously, while Pepita was low on the ground, apparently unhurt but covering her ears with massive paws. What… what had just happened?

“That’s a nice alebrije you’ve got there. That was a close call, though. You shouldn’t be wandering here without something to keep old Alma at bay.”

“Huh?”

Miguel turned - they all did - to see that there were people standing a few feet from them, three men and a woman who were definitely not police officers. The woman had green and yellow markings on her face and salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a braid. She was holding a whistle made of material that looked terribly like bone; one of the men beside her was massive, one tall and spindly, and the third had a splint on his right humerus, and seemed to be trying not to put too much weight on his left leg.

“Anita?” Héctor blurted out, and the woman smiled.

“Hola, Héctor. Making a habit out of getting living grandkids to visit?”

“This wasn’t really planned,” Héctor muttered, only to pause when he realized that the entire family was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He shrugged. “I may or may not have asked her help once or twice, when I got desperate. And I do mean, _really_ desperate.”

Anita shrugged right back. “Oh, that was harsh,” she droned. “It hurt all two of my feelings.”

“Believe me, I got hurt worse.”

“Fair enough. No hard feelings for that bridge-crossing smuggling fiasco, right?”

“All in the past. Though I’d love to have the van and mini fridge I gave you back.”

“Dream on.”

“Ah well. It was worth a sho--”

“Was _that_ your alebrije?” Mamá Imelda asked, cutting him off. She was checking on Pepita, her gaze hard as stone, and it seemed to only soften when Anita shook her head.

“Oh, no. She’s no one’s alebrije - she’s un poco loca, see what I did there? Heh. Too much time in that river will do that to anyone. She and I have an understanding, though,” she added, and let the whistle fall. It was attached to her neck by a piece of string. “I’d ask you what you’re doing in a place like this, but I can guess. Who would the Riveras be looking for if not Ernesto de la Cruz? We had him, but that hijo de--”

“There are children present!” Héctor cut her off, a note of urgency in his voice, and reached to cover Mamá Coco’s ears - or at least the spot where her ears used to be. That caused Anita to raise an eyebrow, but then she met Mamá Coco’s somewhat resigned glance and she chose not to comment on that.

“... Right. As I was saying, we had him, but he managed to escape.”

“Do you know where he could be?” Socorro asked eagerly, taking a few steps forward. “We really need to find him! He has my best friend, too! He’s about my age, but a bit shorter and also dead. De la Cruz took him hostage and--”

“Hostage?” one of the men, who had been silent until that moment, repeated with a snort. “Hah! Hostage my coccyx! That damn kid is working with him!”

The statement was so absurd that, for a moment, Miguel could only stare in silence, blinking fast. He wasn’t the only one who needed a moment to process the sheer absurdity of what he’d just heard: for a second of two, absolutely no one of her family made a noise.

Then, of course, Socorro got there first. “That’s not true!” she protested, stepping forward and pointing accusingly at the man who’d spoken. “You’re lying! Cheque would never!”

“Hah! That’s what I thought,” another skeleton muttered, crossing his arms. He was taller than the others, and broader, with a thick black beard. “We had Ernesto de la Cruz caged and ready for police to pick up when this kid knocks at the door, looking all the world like a poor little orphan and saying - well, _writing_ \- that he was lost and wanted to go home. He even went and cried. That kid’s an actor if I’ve ever seen one,” he added, and something about his words made a cold chill run up Miguel’s spine.

 _You’re just too good at playing the angelic orphan, chamaco,_ Miguel’s own words echoed somewhere in the back of his mind. He could recall Cheque’s grin, that cocky tilt of his head _. You could turn to a life of crime and no one would believe a word of your confession._

“Yeah, and after letting him in, you let him run around,” the man with the splinted humerus muttered. “I was watching de la Cruz and next thing I know, the kid is in there with me. He told me - okay, wrote to me - to _get out of his way,_ can you believe it? And then he drops a _cage_ on me! I’m lucky he didn’t break all of my bones!”

At a loss for words, Miguel turned to quickly glance at the rest of his family. All of them were still clearly stunned; the twins were staring at the man’s fractured arm with their mouths slightly slightly agape, Tía Rosita was holding a hand where her heart would have been, and Tía Victoria was adjusting her glasses with a frown. Papá Julio, the only one among them who hadn’t met Cheque yet, mainly looked confused; Mamá Coco and Mamá Imelda were glancing sideways at Héctor, whose expression had darkened.

 _He would never,_ Miguel remembered telling him only a few hours earlier. _He’s her best friend. He’s not Ernesto._

He’d been sure of it, then - at least, almost sure. Now… now he suddenly wasn’t anymore. And if the way Socorro’s voice shook when she spoke up, neither was she.

“T-that doesn’t mean… maybe he didn’t know--”

“Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing,” the woman, Anita, cut her off. “After he incapacitated Bartolo he went on to pick up the keys and let de la Cruz out of the cage. Those two were _joking_ together before they went and took down my other man by using the Poor Little Hostage act on him,” she added with a scoff, and crossed her arms. “I could admire that, if he hadn’t crossed me. If he’s de la Cruz’s helpless victim, I’m Frida Kahlo.”

“Cheque would never… he…” Socorro began, but her voice died in her throat. She looked around, suddenly lost without her granitic certainty that _Cheque would never._ Miguel wanted to step forward, to reassure her somehow, but someone else got there first - Mamá Coco.

“Now, now. Ezequiel is only a boy, and Ernesto de la Cruz is a manipulator if there ever was one,” she said, her voice quiet but somehow as powerful as her mother’s own. She stepped forward, putting her hand on Socorro’s upper back. “Who knows what lies that man has spun. For all we know, your friend may not even know who he’s dealing with.”

Before them, two of the men glanced at each other.

“... Actually…”

“Now that you mention it, when I almost called him by name in front of the boy, de la Cruz slammed my head against the wall to shut me up…”

“Yeah, he did the same with me, he cut me off right away.”

Anita, on the other hand, looked skeptical. “Are you telling me you _seriously_ think the boy believed we’d just picked a random guy from the street to lock him up for no reason whatsoever?” she asked, earning herself an unimpressed look from Mamá Imelda.

“Whatever _business_ it is you run in a place like this, I suspect it’s shady at best,” she said, and the other woman seemed to think it over for a moment before shrugging.

“Eh, fair point. But the kid knew that police was coming to pick up de la Cruz. So, even he he did not know who he was, he must have at least guessed he was aiding a criminal.”

Miguel had to admit she had a point, but he had been on the receiving end of de la Cruz’s lies before. He knew how convincing that man could be, and Cheque was _nine,_ even younger than he’d been himself. “I’m sure there is an explanation. Cheque will tell us when we find him,” he said. He spoke to Socorro, but it was Anita to reply.

“Well, good luck finding him, then. We’ll make sure not to harm the kid if we get them first, because I feel generous enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. I can’t promise we’ll hand de la Cruz over to the authorities in one piece. I don’t take it kindly when my men are harmed. But I’m sure you have no objections to that,” she added, her voice dry, and nodded at her men. “Back to searching. Now.”

“Be careful, Anita,” Héctor called out, causing her to scoff without looking back.

“Your concern is moving, but my body count is much higher than his and I needed no poison to do the work for me. I fought a civil war decades before any of you was born,” she muttered, and that was all. Miguel watched them disappear around the corner, speechless, and winced then Mamá Imelda spoke up.

“We can’t let them or the police get to them first,” she muttered, and turned to the rest of the family, hands on her hips. She looked all the world like a general about to lay down her battle plan. “We’ll split in groups, and-- what is it, Felipe?”

“Óscar and I are going together, right?”

“... That goes without saying. Julio, you’re going with them. Start searching that way. Víctoria, Rosi-- Rosita, why do you have a rolling pin there?”

“Oh, I figured I could use a weapon,” Tía Rosita explained, brandishing it like a sword and very narrowly missing Tía Victoria’s skull. She ducked under it, eyeying it warily.

“And _where_ were you keeping-- no, never mind. Fine. You, Victoria and Coco go that way,” Mamá Imelda said, pointing at their left. “If you find them, _whistle._ Pepita will hear. Héctor and I will search wherever she leads us. Miguel and Socorro will come with us,” she added, and turned to stare straight at them. “This place is dangerous, and you two are alive. I’d rather keep it that way. Do not stray away from Pepita. Claro?”

“Claro,” Miguel said, and expected his sister to reply as well, but there was only silence. He glanced down to see that she was staring ahead, as though lost in thought, a distant cast to her gaze. Part of him wanted to ask what she was thinking, but that was not the right moment: they had little time, and they needed to get moving.

Whatever it was that was bothering Socorro, it would have to wait.

* * *

The roar had been distant, but impossible to mistake for anything else.

Ezequiel knew what it was, and so did Neto. They paused, turning back towards the far end of the alley they were going through; after a while Ezequiel had asked Neto to put him down. He could walk, and he didn’t want to be a burden… but now that roar made him wish he’d stayed in his arms.

Ezequiel strained his ears to listen, but he couldn’t hear any more noise, and he relaxed a bit. Wherever the Riveras’ alebrije was, it wasn’t that close. They could still outrun it, if they kept moving through narrow alleys that _thing_ couldn’t get into. And then… then…

_Then what? How long can we keep running away from it?_

Ezequiel swallowed, and looked up to see the same exact thought showing on Neto’s face. It made him feel terrible, because there was no reason why Neto had to be dragged into all that. He was wanted and in enough trouble as things were, and he didn’t have to help him out. He didn’t _have_ to risk his neck bone for him. It wasn’t fair.

 _Maybe it won’t be too bad if I go back before it finds us,_ Ezequiel thought. Since the alebrije had attacked them, so much had happened so fast he’d had no time to really pause and think it over, but the more he thought about it _now,_ the more it seemed the reasonable thing to do.  Maybe the Riveras were angry, but Socorro could tell them to leave him be. Why wouldn't she? She'd always protected him - was he sure, really _sure,_ that she wouldn't protect him now now? Maybe she hadn't even _wanted_ her family to set the alebrije on him. Why had he accepted that conclusion so quickly? Was it because being angry at her was easier than feeling guilty?

_And Neto said they wouldn’t stay angry forever, anyway._

“We need to move quickly. If we keep to narrow passages--” Neto was saying, but he trailed off when Ezequiel pulled at his coat to get his attention and reached for his whiteboard. He wrote on it with a hand that felt heavy as lead.

THEY’RE LOOKING FOR ME. IF I GO TO THEM, YOU CAN GET AWAY.

For a moment, Neto said nothing. He just stared down at the whiteboard, clenching his jaw, and then he shook his head. “No,” he said, very quietly. His right hand slipped into his coat’s pocket, but Ezequiel paid it no mind. “No, I can’t.”

Something bubbled in Ezequiel’s chest cavity, something that was part relief and part frustration and mostly a sudden urge to cry. Even his _mother_ had moved on without him when it had been the best thing to do - why wouldn’t Neto do the same?

IT’S THE ONLY WA-

Ezequiel had no time to finish writing: the next moment Neto was crouching in front of him, and put his left hand across the whiteboard. “You misunderstand,” he said, his voice still quiet and oddly devoid of emotion. “It would change nothing. They are after me, too. They will keep hunting me down whether you return or not, whether you give that blessing or not.”

That caused Ezequiel to blink up at him, taken aback, and Neto spoke again with a joyless smile. “They’ll get me in the end. But I won’t let them have _you._ Not just yet,” he added, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he pulled his hand away from the whiteboard and held it out to him, palm up. “Stay with me, Cheque,” he added, and this time he didn’t sound emotionless at all. This time, it sounded like a plea. He sounded tired. He sounded _scared._

And Ezequiel - who wasn’t sure what that was all about, but who’d been _so_ scared and had _so_ wanted to plead for his mother not to leave him alone - couldn’t ignore that. So he clipped the whiteboard back to his belt, and reached to take that hand with a nod. Neto stared at him for a moment, a look of mild surprise crossing his face - had he expected him to just leave him there? - before he smiled. This time, he looked like he meant it.

“You’re a good kid,” he said, very quietly, and stood, still holding onto his hand. “Let’s go.”

He got walking again and Ezequiel walked with him, taking two or three quick steps to match each of his strides. He never noticed Neto pulling his other hand out of the coat’s pocket, letting go of the hammer whose handle he’d been holding onto from the moment Ezequiel had suggested splitting ways.

* * *

It had started with a taunt, like all the trouble with Gabriel did.

Their class had been going down the stairs to the gym, two by two, and Socorro had made a point of get in line behind him, because waking in front of that idiot was asking for trouble. A pull at your hair if you were lucky, something disgusting down the collar of her shirt if you were not. She was more than ready to deck him in the face and get in trouble for it if need be, but it was something best avoided.

Except that it wasn’t enough. The moment they paused on the stairs - because their teacher had met _another_ teacher who was going up, so of course they had to stop and talk, ugh, why did adults talk so much and take time out of their gym hour? - Gabriel had turned suddenly, grabbed her and Cheque, yelled ‘KISS!’ and knocked their heads together. It wasn’t enough to really hurt, but enough for Socorro to give a startled cry.

“Oye! What’s wrong with you?” she protested, glaring down at that grinning idiot. Beside her, Cheque was rubbing the side of his head, making a face. “You hurt him!”

“Aww, I _huuurt_ him,” Gabriel muttered, his voice squeaky. While no one laughed at his stupid jokes and plenty of eyes were rolled, no one really said anything either. “I should have known you’re the girlfriend, nenita,” he added, reaching up to pinch Cheque’s cheek, but Socorro slapped his hand away.

“He’s not-- Stop that!” she snapped, and she was about to add something that _probably_ involved an insult to his whole family seven generations back, but the teacher spoke up first.

“No fighting,” she muttered, though barely turning her attention from the conversation, and Socorro scowled.

“But maestra Antonia, he--” she tried, only to get one of her Stern Looks that, to be honest, really were nothing much compared to Abuelita’s own.

“I don’t care who started,” she said, uttering one of the sentences that Socorro hated the most in the world. “No fighting, Socorro.”

And that was it: she went back to her conversation, and Gabriel gave her that annoying grin of his before he stuck out his tongue and turned away. Socorro was still fuming and trying to think of something sharp enough to say when there was a movement she barely saw out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly Gabriel _fell._ He was there one moment and flying down the stairs the next - and then he was on the ground right by the teacher, howling in pain and holding onto his arm, which was bent in a way that couldn’t be natural.

A few moments of utter chaos followed. Their teacher rushed to him, the other teacher pulled out a phone to call an ambulance, their schoolmates winced and murmured amongst themselves, and all eyes were fixed on the screaming boy. Except Socorro’s: she could only stare at Cheque - had she seen him moving out of the corner of her eye? Had she really? Had she imagined it? - and for a moment she almost didn’t recognize him.

His face was always so expressive, maybe to make up for his lack of a voice, and looking at him was like glancing at an open book… but not now. As he looked down at Gabriel, his face showed no expression at all. It was just blank, his gaze fixed and his mouth just a thin slit.

“SHE PUSHED ME!” Gabriel shrieked, causing her to recoil. “I felt it! She pushed me down the stairs! It hurts! My arm hurts!”

Socorro looked away from Cheque to realize that suddenly all of her classmates were staring at her, and that la maestra Antonia was walking up the stairs to her. She was calm, but her mouth was pulled into a thin line. “Socorro,” she said, her voice tight. “That was an extremely dangerous thing to do. Come with me.”

Wait, what? “No, I… that’s not true!” she protested. “I didn’t push him!”

“I _told_ you two to stop arguing. He could have broken his _neck,_ do you even realize-”

Panic and anger tightening her throat, Socorro opened her mouth to protest again, but she didn’t get to. The next moment Cheque was pulling at the teacher’s sleeve, holding up the whiteboard. NO ONE PUSHED HIM, it read. I SAW HIM TRIPPING.

That caused her to pause, and stare down at him. Cheque met her gaze and his expression was no longer blank at all: he was frowning slightly, as though insulted that anyone had the audacity to accuse his best friend. The teacher hesitated, then bent down slightly, hands on her knees.

“Did you really, Ezequiel?” she asked, not unkindly. She had a soft spot for him, like everyone else. “You’re not trying to protect your friend, are you? It would be understandable, dear, but this is a serious--”

Cheque didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence. He calmly flipped the whiteboard on the other side to write again, and then held it up. ARE YOU SAYING I’M A LIAR?

It was the boldest thing Socorro had ever seen him doing and, in a way, the most calculating. Instead of getting defensive, or denying, he’d turned the confrontation on its head without missing a beat. Suddenly, it was the teacher who’d have to answer with either a yes or a no, and justify that answer - and if the way she’d reared back was of any indication, she was just as surprised as Socorro by the sudden turn. Of course she was: that was not how a boy was supposed to reply. That was a _grownup_ thing to do.

The eerily blank expression she’d seen on Cheque’s face came back to Socorro’s mind, and for a moment she wondered if what she’d seen was a glimpse of a different Cheque, the _adult_ one who would take his place years down the road. Something about that thought made her feel uneasy, but then the teacher stood and Socorro’s attention turned back to her.

For a few moments she said nothing, and during that brief silence Socorro could tell that everyone would believe him - because Gabriel was a troublemaker and Cheque was the teachers’ darling, the polite little boy everyone liked and, deep down, pitied. She knew it, the teacher knew it, and so did Cheque.

_Were you counting on that? Did you push him, Cheque?_

In the end, their teacher chose not to answer. She looked around at their silent classmates - most of whom, unable to read what Cheque had written, looked very confused. “Did anyone else see how Gabriel fell?” she asked. No one said anything, and Socorro knew in that moment that the matter was settled. Gabriel had fallen down the stairs, that was all. It happened. No one had pushed him - not her and definitely not Cheque. He would never.

An ambulance was called and Gabriel was taken to the hospital, his face streaked with tears and still shrieking that he was telling the truth, he had been pushed, _someone_ had pushed him - but from that moment on Socorro heard nothing more of it. When Gabriel came back to school a couple of days later with his arm in a cast, he shot her a sullen look and she answered with a glare… only to realize, when he recoiled and turned away, that he hadn’t been looking at her. He’d been glaring at Cheque, who had answered with one of those smiles of his - sweet enough to melt butter and, she could tell, fake as a three pesos coin.

For a split second, the doubt was there again - had she seen him moving that day? Could it be that he’d given Gabriel a shove? - but then Cheque turned to her to make a face, wrinkling his nose like a rabbit.

 _Can you believe that guy?,_ that face told her, and Socorro laughed.

“Will teach him to watch his step,” she said with a shrug, and went back to her drawing, the thought gone from her mind like mist at midday.

_Cheque would never._

* * *

“... Papá Héctor? Can I… can I ask you something?”

Socorro’s voice was so quiet Héctor almost didn’t hear it; it didn’t take a genius to realize that she didn’t want anyone else to hear - not even Miguel, who was walking only a few feet ahead with Imelda, following Pepita as she kept sniffing at the ground in search of a trace, a familiar scent. And if she wanted no one else to hear… well, Héctor suspected he knew what was it that she wanted to ask about.

“Of course, Coquito,” he said, and held out his hand for her. Socorro grasped it, and held it tight, but kept her gaze fixed on the ground. Now that her arms were skeletal up to her shoulders, and her legs as well, she somehow looked even smaller. “What is it?”

She drew in a trembling breath before speaking. “How… how good friends were you and de la Cruz? When… when you were my age?”

 _We clearly were never really friends,_ was an answer he’d give nowadays, but he knew deep down that it was a lie. An easy one, comforting in its own way, but a lie nonetheless.

“Very good friends,” he said. It sounded like a confession to his own ears. “Like brothers.”

“And then… then what happened?”

Héctor let out a sigh. “I wish I knew, nenita, I really do. Maybe time has a way of changing people, or make their true colors show. At one point, Ernesto decided that his dream mattered more than anything and anyone else. But I never thought that he’d… well...”

“You thought that he would _never,_ until he did,” Socorro choked out, and it was that pitiful noise that made him pause, something clenching painfully in his chest cavity. Héctor crouched down, and gently tilted up Socorro’s chin so that she’d look at him. Her eyes were full of tears she was trying her hardest not to shed.

“Yes. It never crossed my mind that he would even think of harming me to get what he wanted, not even _long_ after he did,” he admitted. “But, pequeñita, Ezequiel is not Ernesto. Your Mamá Coco is right - who knows what de la Cruz told him.”

Socorro sniffled, still trying not to cry. “I want to believe that he would never, _so_ much,” she managed. She blinked, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “But I don’t _know_ anymore, and I’m so scared. I think… I think he hurt someone, once, when he was angry. What if he’s so angry at me now that he wants me to never go home? What if he hates me?”

Héctor shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m sure he could never--” he began, only to trail off, a sudden memory echoing in his mind and causing the words to die in his mouth.

_Oh, I could never hate you. If you must go, then..._

_You thought he would never, until he did._

It was a chilling thought, but Héctor forced himself to chase it away. Socorro was in tears and he knew there was only one thing to do: smile, and hope for the best. Héctor could just imagine how painful that doubt was and why it would frightener her, a child of eight who could stare at death in the face and still refuse to budge for the sake of a friend she felt responsible for. How deep would it cut if it turned out that all of that loyalty and trust had been so misplaced? Héctor could only pray she, at least, would be spared that.

“Even if he’s angry, I’m sure he’ll come around,” he said, reaching to wipe away her tears with a thumb. “He doesn’t know how urgent this is. We never told him there is only time until sunrise to give you that blessing, did we? There was no time to. I’m sure that if he knew, he’d run to you in a moment and try all he can to give you that blessing.”

Socorro looked at him, as though barely daring to hope. “You really think so?” she asked, and Héctor nodded as though he was absolutely certain of it. He opened his mouth to say as much, too… but then there was a sudden, thundering growl, and he had no time to add anything. He turned around to see Pepita sniffing at the ground, the snarl coiling from the back of her throat, and his eyes found Imelda. She met his gaze, jaw set, and nodded.

“We can’t make mistakes this time,” she said, and turned to Pepita. “Lead us to them, but keep yourself at a distance. Do not attack unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she added, and the huge alebrije let out a purr that Héctor had learned to take as a ‘yes’ before crouching. Miguel was the first to climb on her back, gesturing for Socorro to follow him with a grin.

“I’m sure Cheque is going to love the ride back,” he said. That made Socorro smile for the first time in quite a while and, as she climbed up beside her brother, Héctor and Imelda shared a quick glance, fully knowing that they were thinking the exact same thing.

_Please, let him be right._

* * *

_This is pointless. The boy can’t give that damn blessing. I need a drink. My ribs hurt. My head hurts. I need two drinks. What am I even trying to accomplish anymore?_

Ernesto tried to ignore the thoughts floating in his mind, the throb of the headache, the pain in his ribs. He focused on walking, one step at time, focused on the small hand in his own and on his alebrijes, who were trotting ahead of them in the dim light cast by the few working streetlights. He didn’t even know where he was, how many alleys he’d gone through.

A couple of times they’d almost been spotted by a wandering agent, and had to dash into an alley or an abandoned home. He'd been tempted to stay inside, but with that damned alebrije on his tracks, he knew nowhere was safe and he couldn't let himself be cornered. He had to keep moving and... and... had they already passed through there? Did he recognize the boarded-up house on their left? Maybe. Maybe not. He had no clue, he’d never been anywhere near that place before, and there could be agents or worse behind every corner he turned. All he knew was that he was hurting and tired of being hunted like an animal. How long before he could stop and rest? How many hours to dawn? Two, three? He’d lost count.

_It doesn’t matter. Just a little while longer and then it will be over. Just a little--_

_Whoosh._

That sound, huge wings cutting through the air, was much quieter than the roar had been - but closer, so much closer. It caused Ernesto to freeze, tensing and looking around in the maze of alleys, back streets and abandoned buildings he’d been wandering through. For a few moments he could hear nothing… then there was a noise somewhere on his left, on the other side of the buildings, the thud of something landing and a low, deep _growl._

 _It’s here. They’re here,_ Ernesto thought, and felt Cheque’s hand clenching on his sleeve, heard his own alebrijes start snarling. He could hear voices, hushed and too distant for him to catch words, but he knew who it had to be and he wouldn’t stay to find out what they were saying. Their beast couldn’t follow them in such narrow passages. If they moved quickly--

“Ernesto!” Héctor’s voice reached him loud and clear, and he knew that they were closer than he’d thought. His first instinct was to turn back into some alley, but which one? Should he force his way into a building? Had they surrounded him already? There were too many people in that family. Why were they keeping a distance if they outnumbered him? Did they fear for the boy’s safety? He supposed that had to be it. He could use it to his advantage.

“If you’re there, listen to me,” Héctor spoke again as Ernesto looked around from narrow street to narrow street, weighting his few options. “Is Ezequiel with you? Is he all right?”

Cheque - so his name was Ezequiel? - winced when his name was spoken… but he also let go of Ernesto’s sleeve. Had he been paying any attention to him anymore, Ernesto would have noticed that; he would have noticed that his wasn’t the _only_ name that Héctor had just let slip; he would have noticed the way Cheque was eyeing him, doubt starting to creep in, the gears in his head turning.

But he saw none of it. As his _second_ castle of lies began creaking, ready to crash down on him, all that he could focus on was Héctor’s despicable voice calling out for him again.

“Just come out. We’re not going to do you any harm. We can help you.”

“We can _what_ now?”

“Mamá Imelda, please…!”

“Uuugh. _Fine._ Fi-- what was that? Who’s laughing?”

It was very, very far from the smart thing to do all things considered - if he’d stayed quiet, he might have yet had a chance to sneak away undetected - but Ernesto just couldn’t help himself. It was just so absurd, all of it. What Héctor had said, the entire situation… it didn’t make any sense. It was _hilarious._

_We set off to become musicians. I wanted to play for the world. How did it come to this?_

He was aware, faintly, of the boy’s presence, of his worried look and confusion as he kept laughing, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t control himself, couldn’t control anything.

“... Ernesto?” Héctor called out again, his voice quieter, and Ernesto kept laughing.

“Help me,” he wheezed, reaching to press a hand on his cracked ribs, as though that could do anything to ease the stabbing pain. His head throbbed more than ever now, and yet he couldn’t stop cackling. “Hah! Help me! I’d forgotten how funny you are, mi amigo! _Help_ me!”

“You don’t have to keep running,” Héctor’s voice came again. “You’re wanted because of what you did to us, to Miguel and me. If we say we have no intention to press--”

“SHUT UP!” The scream left Ernesto with no thought at all, and he didn’t even care that it made his side hurt even more, that it made the boy and even his own alebrijes recoil and take a step back away from him. He had forgotten about their presence, he had forgotten that there were probably more people around looking for him with less than savory intention. He could think of nothing but the sheer _absurdity_ of Héctor’s words.

“You... _hah!_ You had your chance to help me, Héctor! You had it a century ago! That was when I needed your help, and _you_ refused! You were going to leave and take away everything I ever dreamed to achieve, and I couldn’t let you do it. So _shut up_ and--”

“YOU SHUT YOUR FACE, DE LA CRUZ!” a shriek cut through the air, causing Ernesto to trail off with a grimace, the pain in his head spiking. Was that the newest Rivera brat? Just how _loud_ did she need to be? “Give us Cheque back, you murderer! Cheque, are you there? Please, _please,_ I’m so sorry! Tell me you’re okay! De la Cruz, I swear that if you _hurt_ him I’m gonna kill you dead again! Che-- no! Miguel, let me go! We’ve got to help him! I’ve got to--”

“Stay back, all of you! _Show your faces and I’ll bash his skull in!_ You know I will!” Ernesto shouted, and his hand found the handle of the hammer in his pocket. He turned towards the boy and held out his hand, hoping that the hostage act could work one more time... only to freeze when he realized that Cheque had stepped away from him, back pressed against the wall behind him and eyes wide with horror. It took a moment for Ernesto to realize what that look meant, but when he did it was as though his marrow had turned to ice.

The boy had heard his full name, and more. He’d pieced it all together. He knew who he was looking at and now; he knew what he had done and he could tell he’d been used against the Riveras, as Ernesto had known it would happen. He wasn’t the first one he betrayed, and far from the first person to despise him. Ernesto had thought he’d been prepared to see that special brand of horror and disgust on his face, he really had. Now he found that he was not.

“Cheque--” he tried, hand still held out, only to see his features twisting with fury before the boy moved, and moved fast. He sprang at him like a tightly-coiled spring, pulling a brick from behind his back - when had he picked it up? Had he pulled it loose from the wall? - before he slammed it, _hard,_ against Ernesto’s broken ribs. Pain flared up his right side, causing him to cry out, and the boy almost managed to make a run for it. Almost, because Ernesto swung his free arm and grabbed his wrist as he ran past him, yanking him back with a cry of anger.

 _“Oh no you don’t! You’re going nowhere!”_ he screamed, and lifted the hammer above his head. Somewhere not too far away Héctor was screaming for him to leave the boy alone, saying something on how it wasn’t too late, but Ernesto barely heard him - he barely heard himself shouting back that it was much too late, that he’d come too far and there could be no going back, that if they _dared_ show their faces they’d be _sorry_. He was truly aware of nothing but Cheque’s upturned, terrified face, and the weight of the hammer in his hand.

One blow would be enough to shatter his jaw, ensuring that he could give no blessing at all for a long time. One blow, and he’d have won. It was now or never. He had to… to…

_Seize my moment? Too late. It’s passed, it’s all gone. There is nothing for me to win._

Ernesto’s hand froze in mid-air, and so did the hammer, when he saw that his alebrijes were cowering away from him, hiding behind Cheque like they feared he’d harm them, too. He stared at them for a long moment before his eyes moved to Cheque’s face. He no longer looked horrified, or scared, or angry: he was just crying… or so it seemed.

“... Heh. You’re a good actor, I’ll give you that,” Ernesto heard himself saying, the hammer still lifted. “It takes one to recognize another. You’ll try to smash my ribs in again the moment I lower my guard,” he added, and he knew he’d guessed right when Cheque’s gaze darkened, all pretense gone, fury and betrayal looming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.

It was the look he’d dreaded to receive, and yet Ernesto found himself giving a weak smile. “I like the way you think, I really do. You could have gone far, if not for that van,” he said, and lowered the hammer before dropping it on the ground - it was heavy, it was too heavy and he was too tired - and letting go of Cheque’s wrist. The boy stepped back, almost tripping over his alebrijes, his eyes wide with surprise great enough to make all anger fade.

“Go, before I change my mind,” Ernesto said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears, or lack thereof. “And take these mutts with you. They’re useless as spirit guides. Keep them.”

One last surprised look, and then Cheque turned to run away from him, back to the Riveras. As he disappeared around a corner Ernesto’s alebrijes hesitated, looking back at him. Zita whined, and Ernesto set his jaw. He would soon be thrown in a cell or a cenote or _worse_ without any of them, so he may as well send them away on his terms. Nothing would be _taken_ from him again. “I have no use for you anymore. Go with him and leave me alone.”

Part of him had hoped they’d refused to go, but they did not: they only hesitated another moment, giving him a sad look, before following his order - they _always_ followed his orders - and running the way Cheque had gone. It hurt more than Ernesto wanted to admit, but he forced himself to ignore the sting. Maybe they would stay with the boy, maybe they would find someone else to be spirit guides to, but either way it didn’t really matter. It was over.

_“Cheque!”_

He could hear voices and exclamations, but he didn’t try to listen in. Whether or not Cheque would be able to send the Riveras’ shrieking brat back to the Land of the Living had never really mattered at all to him, nor he gave a damn what would happen to him once they got their hands on him. After all, waiting to be caught was all that he had truly been doing for the past eight years: time to get it over with. He only wished he could have drink first.

With a grunt, holding onto his damaged ribs, Ernesto went to sit on the ground, his back to the wall of a house in ruin, and closed his eyes. Knowing that the hunt was almost over gave him more relief than he’d felt in a long, long time. He didn’t have to run. He didn’t have to fight or hide; he only had to wait. Whatever happened next was out of his hands, and it didn’t matter. _Everything_ had stopped mattering the moment the crowd at the Sunrise Spectacular had turned on him - when everything that he’d ever had and _been_ had crumbled down to dust and ashes, leaving behind nothing, and nobody, worth salvaging.

Minutes passed without anybody coming to get him. A bell rang in the distance, and for the first time in years Ernesto de la Cruz didn’t even flinch. He kept his eyes shut, failing to see the familiar figure approaching in silence, and counted the tolls, failing to hear the footsteps.

Just as he finished counting, fireworks boomed and crackled somewhere above him. He opened his eyes to look up and see a few dying sparkles lighting up the night sky before fading, leaving it pitch black once again.

One hour to dawn.


	11. The Crumbling Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was about time a certain someone came to the mind-blowing realization that he’s actually a shitty person, wasn’t it.

“Ernesto? Don’t do anything stupid! Listen do me! You don’t have to do this! ERNESTO!”

No answer, and that sudden silence was so much worse than all of his furious screaming had been.

Ernesto was more than capable of harming the boy, Héctor knew it very well: he’d attempted to kill Miguel twice, after all – once indirectly, when he still thought he was  _ family, _ and once directly, when he’d been backed in a corner. That thought, the memory of how Ernesto had thrown his great-great-grandson off the ledge as easily as he’d have discarded a bag of rubbish, was the reason why he’d tried to talk things through without approaching, without letting Ernesto see them and feel threatened enough to lash out.

But it hadn’t been enough. Ernesto was beyond reason, and wouldn’t even  _ listen.  _ He may very well have already shattered the boy’s skull, whether or not he’d cooperated with him before, out of sheer spite. If Ernesto had turned on  _ him, _ he could turn on anyone... and if he already had they wouldn’t know it, because unless he’d been pretending all along – it was a thought Héctor was almost ashamed of, but couldn’t get out of his mind all the same – Ezequiel couldn’t even scream.

Socorro had shrieked enough for both of them, sure enough, shouting pleas and then threats while desperately struggling to free herself from Miguel’s grip, all desperation and seething anger. But now even she was silent, staring with wide eyes at the entrance to the side street Pepita had brought them to, dark as a the mouth of a rifle. It led to more alleys and streets where, they could easily guess, Ernesto was hiding _. _

“We need to go in,” Imelda finally spoke, breaking the horrified silence. Behind her, Pepita was snarling but obeyed the order to be still. The street was too narrow for her to get in either way. “That rat may be sneaking away for all we know.”

“He has Ezequiel. If he sees us--”

“He may very well have already harmed him,” Imelda cut him off, and her gaze darkened for a moment. “Who are you  _ really _ trying to protect now, Héctor?”

“My family,” Héctor replied, a bit more harshly than he meant to. But the remark had stung, it truly had. The fact he may have given in to pity for what had been his best friend once didn’t mean he would allow more harm to come to his family because of him. “You and Miguel, and Socorro, and her friend. I would never risk--”

“Then we have to go after them, and we need to go now. Every minute that passes--”

“Hey! Listen!”

Miguel’s voice caused them both to pause, and Socorro to wince. Héctor turned to the street’s entrance and he saw or heard nothing at first… then the noise reached him too, and it was the sound of steps – very fast and very light, like… like…

_ Like a child running. _

Realization hit him only one instant before Ezequiel del Rio – who may have been Ezequiel de la Cruz if things had gone differently a century or so earlier, or who may never have existed at all – burst out of the side street into the small square they were in, running as though he had the devil at his heels. He saw them, and Pepita, and skidded to a halt with a terrified look… which turned to nothing short of horror when his gaze found Socorro.

She had looked perfectly normal when he’d last seen her, but now her arms and legs were entirely skeletal, and her shirt hung from bony shoulders and over, Héctor guessed, a visible ribcage. Somehow, that look of stunned realization on Cheque’s face gave Héctor more relief than the boy’s arrival had. It told him loud and clear that he hadn’t known that Socorro only had until dawn to go back home, that he’d never  _ meant _ for her to die. Miguel had been right.

_ He’s not Ernesto. _

“CHEQUE!” Socorro’s yell broke the instant of silence,  _ her _ relief unmatched, and Miguel immediately let go of her. She ran to the boy like a bullet, and threw her arms around him. Cheque staggered back, but didn’t stumble, and he was clinging back to her the next moment. Socorro lifted him up, dragging him into an half-twirl and almost stumbling in the process; beside Héctor, Miguel let out a relieved laugh.

“Ay, muchacho! Are you all right?” he exclaimed, and walked quickly up to the kids. Both of them were shaking now, still holding onto each other, and it didn’t take much to guess there was some weeping going on there.

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Cheque. I’m so sorry,” Socorro was choking out. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay? We looked for you everywhere and I thought you hated me and I should have known you would  _ never.  _ I’ve been so stupid,” she muttered before pulling back, sniffling, and Cheque gave a small smile, wiping his eyes before writing something on his whiteboard.

I’M THE STUPID ONE. I THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT ME.

“No, of course not, chamaco,” Miguel said, and reached to put an arm around his shoulders. “No one was angry at you. This isn’t your fault,” he added, and smiled. “We met a few people you gave a bit of a headache to, though. Did you take my joke on turning to a life of crime a bit too literally?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, and Cheque gave a slightly sheepish smile.

THEY HAD TAKEN THE ALEBRIJES, he wrote, causing Héctor to blink.

“Alebrijes? What alebri--”

“Yip! Yip!”

… Oh. That answered it.

Ernesto de la Cruz’s alebrijes – why did he get  _ multiple _ alebrijes when so many got none at all, or just one? What was he trying to compensate for? – burst into the square from the same street Cheque had. Much like him, they skidded to a halt when they saw Pepita, although she still kept her distance, simply tilting her head when she spotted then.

Dante, on the other hand, did not: with some overly enthusiastic barking, he ran to the tiny dogs in leaps and bounds, to be met with a chorus of yaps and four wagging tails. Héctor had to admit that it was kind of a funny sight, especially when the four tiny dogs ran right under Dante’s legs and led him to a merry chase across the square, but the amusement was short-lived. When he glanced the way they had come again, there was no one else there. Héctor couldn’t believe he’d found himself  _ hoping  _ to see Ernesto again. 

“Cheque,” he said slowly. “Was Ernesto still there when you left?”

The boy nodded, and wrote again.

I DON'T THINK HE'S GOING ANYWHERE. HE’S HURT. HE TOLD ME TO KEEP THE ALEBRIJES.

“He… what?” Imelda asked, blinking, and Cheque wrote again.

HE LET ME GO.

“He let you go,” Miguel repeated, sounding all the world like he was trying out a string of foreign words.

_ If only he’d let me go, too, _ Héctor found himself thinking, but he pushed the thought away. That was not the time to dwell in what-ifs, and he clearly wasn’t the only one to think so.

“This is the moment to go and get him, before he runs away,” Imelda muttered, and her hand was halfway to her boot when Héctor lifted a hand, making her pause.

“No. Let me go in and talk to him.”

“Talk to that monster?” Imelda muttered, scowling. Beside her, Miguel looked just as unconvinced. “You tried talking - eight years ago and just now - and it didn’t work.”

“He let the boy go,” Héctor pointed out, and while her frown deepened, she seemed to concede the point. Héctor spoke quickly, before she could add anything else. “If he’s not there anymore, we’ll go after him. But let me try first. A blessing is not something we can  _ force _ out of anyone. I don’t think it would work. It must be given willingly. If we chase him down-- What is it?” he trailed off when he noticed that Cheque was writing quickly on his whiteboard before holding it up.

HOW LONG DOES SHE HAVE?

“Until sunrise,” Miguel said, trying and failing to keep fear out of his voice, and Ezequiel stared at him and then at Socorro in utter dismay before he looked up at the black sky and then, suddenly, he moved. He marched straight at Héctor and thrust a hand in the pocket of his vest.

“Oye! What are you doing?” he exclaimed, taken aback, only to pause when he saw that the boy had grabbed a fistful of the petals he’d brought with him to the Land of the Living and back, to give Miguel his blessing. He hadn’t realized he had them, sticking out of his pocket.

_ Oh. The blessing. He wants to try that again. _

“Cheque...” Socorro tried to say, but the boy shook his head and held out the petals, a scowl on his face. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and his features twisted as he tried –  _ strained _ – to speak, to make any sound at all. None came out except for sudden, short gasps that made his shoulders rise and fall, and his entire ribcage shudder. Miguel reached to put a hand on his upper back in sudden alarm.

“Hey, hey, chamaco, don’t… deep breaths, all right? Cheque? Calm down! Ezequiel!”

Ezequiel shook his head furiously and opened his mouth again, wheezing, desperately trying to talk and failing to. His eyes were wide and terrified, and he made Héctor think of a drowning man trying and failing to draw in air while sinking… or succumbing to poison. It was just as painful to watch, and just as pointless. No word left his mouth and the petals in his fist stayed unlit, but hardly any of them paid it any mind: their attention was taken by the full-blown panic attack unfolding before their eyes.

“Cheque, stop!” Socorro called out. “This is only hurting you! Please, don’t-- Cheque!”

With another wheeze that failed to turn into words, Ezequiel del Rio fell on his knees, shuddering, drawing in gulps of air and letting out dry sobs in the same breath. One of his hands went to his heaving chest and the other grasped air where his throat should have been, letting the petals he was holding fall. Socorro was kneeling next to him before they even hit the ground, holding him tight.

“Please, stop,” she choked out. Her little face was twisted in anguish. “Please. You can't do it. It's okay. You tried your best. This was all my fault. I got myself cursed, not you.”

“It’s all right, chamaco, we’ll find another way. Just calm down. It’s okay,” Miguel added, crouching, but it was Imelda to take control a moment later. She knelt down, gently pulling both children on her lap. Her hand reached to smooth back the boy's hair, and Ezequiel buried his face in her dress as though ashamed, another dry sob causing his small frame to shudder.

“Enough. You did all you could. It is enough,” Imelda murmured, and looked up at Héctor, her eyes steely. Beside her, Socorro was holding the boy’s hand, murmuring ceaselessly something Héctor couldn’t hear. Four tiny alebrijes went to snuffle and nudge at him, whining quietly, while Dante sat close to Socorro, trying to comfort her the only way he could. In the midst of it all Imelda stayed firm as a bastion and kept her gaze on Héctor.

“See if you can find him. If he has a  _ shred _ of decency left, which I doubt, he might do it for the sake of his own flesh and blood if nothing else,” she added. She was cradling the kids like Héctor imagined she’d done with Coco after he’d disappeared and she had to fend for them both, like a lioness shielding her young. “Be careful. That man is dangerous. If you do not return, we’ll come looking for you – and if we do, so  _ help _ him.”

Héctor nodded. “He’ll never again be able to keep me from returning to you,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m coming with you,” Miguel was saying, but paused when Héctor shook his head.

“Best if I go alone,” he said, and held up a hand when he tried to protest. “We have little time to talk him into doing this, chamaco. And plus, you’re alive – if things get ugly, you’re the one who’s risking the most. Let me have a go at it. Stay with your sister.”

Miguel clearly didn’t like the idea of letting him go off on his own to find Ernesto, but in the end he nodded. “All right,” he muttered. “But if he tries anything--”

“I’ll give my best grito if I'm in trouble. Believe me, you’ll hear it,” Héctor cut him off, causing him to give a weak grin, and he didn’t protest anymore. Héctor exchanged another glance with Imelda, and a nod, before he turned and walked into the street Ezequiel had come running from.

In the back of his mind, a memory tried to resurface: that of two children chasing each other through dark streets in Santa Cecilia far past their bedtime, scared of the darkness but ready to die before admitting as much aloud, letting out with fake howls and hoots and trying to catch each other by surprise. There had been a few loud shrieks - Ernesto shrieked the  _ loudest, _ Héctor remembered - and several annoyed people yelling from windows that it was past midnight,  _ some people have to work, chamacos, go home before we give you a beating. _

They’d laughed it all off, of course, the threats and their own childish fear and the relief that followed the shrieks, when they’d found each other again and headed back together, laughing and joking. The dark was not so scary, then… but then Héctor remembered  _ another _ walk in the dark, one to a train station he would never reach, and the memory turned sour. They’d laughed and joked then, too, and Héctor had thought Ernesto meant it. If he’d noticed a blankness on his face from time to time, if his gaze had seemed too distant and yet too  _ fixed _ at the same time, he had thought nothing of it.

_ You thought he would never, until he did.  _

Héctor scowled, and chased the memory away. Dwelling in it would do no good; it was all in the past, deader than they were. Whatever -  _ whoever _ \- he would find in those alleys, it wouldn’t be his best friend. The boy he’d known would not come running out of there like he used to, like Ezequiel had.  _ He _ was not there. 

He wasn’t anywhere.

* * *

He’d tried. He’d really,  _ really  _ tried, but he just couldn’t do it.  Even with Socorro’s life hanging on a thread and so little time - he’d wasted so much time, why had he ran off, why had he believed for even a moment that Socorro would harm him? - he couldn’t force out a word. Some friend he was. He couldn’t do anything. It was no wonder that his mother had left him behind and his grandmother hadn’t wanted to take him in. 

_ My young friend here is more ruthless than he looks, but he does get things done. _

But Neto - de la Cruz - had been wrong,  _ dead _ wrong. There was one thing he had to do, one thing only that was so much more important than anything else he’d ever done or would ever do, and he couldn't do it. Ezequiel wanted nothing more than curl up and forget he existed.  Except that Socorro wouldn’t let him do it. The  _ Riveras _ wouldn’t let him do it. He hated them for it and he loved them for it, and he had no idea how it was  _ possible _ for anybody to want to help him out after all that had happened that night, after he’d gotten it all so wrong.

“Ay, chico, we were so worried!”

“Are you all right? Is he all right?”

“He seems all in one piece…”

“He tried to talk, he really did, but he can’t.”

“The poor boy, what did that monster do to him?”

“Nothing, or… at least I don’t think he did anything to him. He’s just really upset because he can’t give the blessing. Give him some space.”

Ezequiel squeezed his eyes shut and tried as hard as he could to just focus on the memory of his mother’s singing, but he couldn’t block the voices away - like he couldn’t block out the low purring noise of the huge alebrije he was curled up against, Socorro’s arm around his shoulders, the tiny dogs on his lap. But he tried, he really did. 

_ Ay, ay, ay, ay _ _  
_ _ Canta y no llores... _

“It’s going to be okay,” Socorro spoke eventually, breaking her silence and causing the song in his head to come to an abrupt halt. She was still holding an arm around him, refusing to let go. He didn’t want to look at it, to see it as skeletal as his own, so he didn’t open his eyes. He was terrified that, if he looked, she would fully turn into a skeleton before him. As long as he didn’t  _ look, _ he could pretend it wasn’t real. “They’re going to fix this. You… you know this is not your fault, right? Right? Just nod. Please?”

Ezequiel would have nodded, he really would have, if anything to make her stop asking - but the Riveras were still talking, and he found himself listening to them instead.

“Where is de la Cruz? We saw Pepita landing here and we came as quickly as we could.”

“Us, too.”

“He let Cheque go, and then… he can’t have gone far. Héctor went to find him.”

“On his own? Is he loco?”

“He insisted, but we’re giving it another five minutes before we go looking for them.”

“I’m going now. Rosita, can I borrow your rolling pin?”

A collective gasp caused Ezequiel and Socorro to recoil, and Ezequiel opened his eyes at last. Before him, all of them seemed to have stilled for a moment to stare at... Mamá Coco, right? That was how Socorro had called her back in the Department of Family Reunions. He knew he’d remembered that right when Imelda spoke, hands on her hips. 

“Coco, you can’t be serious! Either we all go, or no one does!”

Her daughter was so much shorter than her, and looked older and far less formidable, but she held her gaze with no effort at all. Her hand stayed held out for the rolling pin, and Rosita placed it on her palm with an apologetic look towards their matriarch. 

“Papá knows that we can’t force a him to give Socorro his blessing to go back home. He went there to talk and I’ll do the same. I’m long overdue for a talk with de la Cruz.”

“That man is dangerous!”

“That’s where the rolling pin comes in handy. Thanks, Rosita. I’ll bring it back in one piece.”

“I forbid you to go!”

“I’ve lived to be a hundred, mamá. Don’t make me tell you I do what I want.”

The discussion went on, but Ezequiel was no longer listening. He found himself blinking, sitting straight, the dread and shame replaced by confusion as what he'd hear began sinking in. They needed de la Cruz’s blessing now? Why? Hadn’t they said they needed a blessing from someone from  _ his  _ family? He turned to face Socorro - her face was still  _ hers, _ thankfully, no skull to be seen - and, slowly, reached for his whiteboard.

SOCORRO, he wrote, WHAT DOES ~~NET~~ DE LA CRUZ HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?

* * *

In the tangle of dark alleys and narrow roads, Ernesto de la Cruz had come to rest by the only working street light.

His bones were still perfectly white, but that only made him look all the more ragged by contrast, with an old frayed coat on him and dishevelled hair. He looked worn-out and exhausted, in a way that Héctor had never been - never  _ allowed _ himself to be. In his darkest moments, he’d always had something to work towards. Ernesto had nothing, and maybe the thought should have given him satisfaction. He had every right to feel vindicated, after all.

He did not. I was just  _ sad, _ and nothing more.

Ernesto did not move nor talk as Héctor approached in silence. He was resting on the ground with his back against an old wall, a hand holding onto this right side, head tilted back and eyes shut. There was something eerily familiar about the sight, and Héctor only realized why when he was just a few feet away, as a bell began tolling in the distance. The memory of a man with a foul temper, a lame leg and a fondness for alcohol, sitting on a porch and glaring at him with bloodshot eyes as he dared approach to ask if his son was home, made it back in his mind for the second time in mere hours.

_ He was more like old Estéban than he ever knew, as much as he looked down on him,  _ Maricarmen had said.  _ A few curveballs in life, and he would have turned out the same.  _

She’d been right, of course. And to think Ernesto had tried so, so hard to be different and raise up above his father, the man who had started his life in a basket left on the steps of a church and had probably ended it with a bottle in his hand, to drown out nightmares of a mining accident. He must have been forgotten by now, but for a moment Héctor could almost believe it was him he was looking at. Then the fireworks went off, lighting up the night sky, and Ernesto moved, breaking the illusion. Still unaware of Héctor’s presence, his old friend opened his eyes and tilted back his head to look up, and somehow that - the way he searched the sky for another sign of light, the  _ yearning _ on his face as he did so - was worse. 

“Ernesto,” he finally called out. For a moment there was no reaction, and he almost thought he hadn’t been heard through the fading bangs. Then, Ernesto spoke.

“Héctor,” he said, his voice hollow, and fell silent again. After a moment of hesitation, Héctor stepped closer. Ernesto did not move, did not turn: he kept looking at the pitch black sky, as though hoping to see more fireworks to light it up. Héctor found himself looking up as well.

No luck: there were more bangs in the distance, but none of the light reached them again. “You used to love fireworks,” Héctor finally said. He remember, very vaguely, watching his first firework display with wide eyes, a slightly older child sitting by him and keeping an arm around his shoulders so that he wouldn’t fall off their perch. One of his first real memories, if not the first, and Ernesto was in it. He’d always been there, by his side… to the very end.

“Used to know how to make them, too,” Ernesto was mumbling, unaware of his thoughts.

“Right. Your father taught you how to,” Héctor muttered. It had been one of old Estéban’s attempts at getting his son to learn what he called a  _ proper trade, _ and his most successful one by far. Ernesto had never wanted to keep doing it for a living, but he did enjoy making fireworks and he took pride in the result. He’d made fireworks for his and Imelda’s wedding, too, and it had been a sight to behold… which had helped distract Imelda from the fact he’d drunk way too much and slurred his way through his small speech as Héctor’s best man.

At one point he'd began faking sniffles and talking like he was at a funeral, too, with a few jabs on how their good friend Héctor was lost to marriage for good and so  _ young, _ ay, such a loss for all of them. Imelda hadn’t been impressed, but Héctor had found it amusing. Of course, looking back now, it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all.

_ It wasn’t marriage that did me in. It was you. _

With a sigh, Héctor turned his gaze away from the night sky and looked back down at Ernesto. He hadn’t moved: he was still half-sitting and half-sprawled, and had closed his eyes again. It reminded him of how he’d found him under that arch, seven years ago… only that this time he was hurt and stone sober, and Héctor needed something from him. He couldn’t walk away this time.

“You let the boy go,” Héctor heard himself saying in the end. Ernesto replied without opening his eyes, his voice still hollow. 

“He was becoming tiresome. I got enough lip from him to last me the entire afterlife.”

“He’s mute.”

“Is he now? Must have escaped me,” Ernesto retorted, some sarcasm showing in his voice. That was better, more familiar; it was easier to deal with than the hollowness that had been there before. Yet, when he turned to look at him, he looked just very tired - about as tired as Héctor felt now. He reached for the anger that should have rightfully still been there, but all he got was a handful of cold ashes. There were still embers there, there had to be, but they were buried deep within.

“You didn’t harm him.”

“I had no reason to.”

“Why did you take him in the first place?”

“He showed up at my damn door, leading that bloodthirsty beast right to me. I figured I may as well get back to you by keeping him until sunrise.”

“Pepita is not a--”

“I was talking about your wife,” Ernesto said drily, and entirely ignored Héctor’s scowl. He just shrugged it off and spoke again. “The boy wandered all the way to Shantytown on his own. Was I supposed to kick him in the water and go my way?” he asked. “I would now, but I don’t have the gift of foresight, clearly. If I did, I’d have let your great-great-grandson drown in my pool eight years ago. Or burned that damn photo instead of keeping it on me.”

“Drown in your…?”

“What are you here for? You have the boy,” Ernesto cut him off. “The police will get to me soon enough. Do you want to gloat before it happens, old friend? Let your family rearrange my bones a bit before I’m locked up? I’m surprised they’re not here with you to--”

“Ezequiel can’t give Socorro the blessing she needs,” Héctor interrupted him. He had to cut the chase; they had little time as things were. 

“Tragic. My condolences,” Ernesto said flatly, entirely untouched by the statement. “What would you have me do? Write a sympathies card? Maybe a welcome card would be more fitting, given the circumstances. Or--”

“You can give her your blessing. So that she can go home,” Héctor cut him off, causing him to blink a couple of times before tilting his head on one side. 

“... Is it me, or there’s a dent in your skull that wasn’t there before?”

“What?” Héctor asked, blinking, and brought a hand up to his head. “No, there is no-- oh. Ha ha. Hilarious. I didn’t hit my head. You--”

“Did your wife strike you with a boot one time too many?”

“She never--  _ no. _ I am serious. You can give her the blessing she needs to go home.”

Ernesto gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “I think there are a couple of flaws in your reasoning,” he said. “First of all, a blessing from me would get nothing done. Only the boy’s family can do it, and they are all gone.”

“Er, yes, about that--”

“And secondly,” Ernesto went on, cutting him off. “Even if I  _ could, _ I wouldn’t give my blessing to anybody in your family if it were the only thing that could save me from the Final Death.  _ Especially _ if it were the only thing that could save me from the Final Death, come to think of it. I’d be far happier to fade into oblivion than to keep up this conversation.” 

“I can drop all charges against you,” Héctor replied. It was the only thing they could offer, but he hoped it would be enough. “If we don’t press charges, you’re free.”

Part of him had fully expected Ernesto to give him exactly the silent, icy glare he did. “Free,” he repeated, as though spitting out something rotten. His voice was beyond bitter, beyond desperate. Héctor was suddenly reminded of a fox - or was it a coyote? It had been so long - that he had seen as a boy, with a leg caught in a trap. He remembered begging his father to help him set it free, only to be told that the leg was broken, that it would never survive, and that ending it quickly would be kinder. “Do I look like I’m enjoying my freedom, Héctor? Do you think it makes a difference to me now - any difference at all - whether I’m  _ free _ or not?”

“You’re in hiding. You won’t have to hide anymore if--”

“I will  _ always _ have to hide,” Ernesto cut him off. “You’re wasting your time. I can’t help you and if I could, why should I? You refused to help me first, and then took everything from me!”

Héctor had opened his mouth to try reasoning with him, but hearing that caused his left eye to twitch. Fury made a comeback, new flame from the embers. “You--  _ I _ took everything from you? Are you serious?” he snapped, hands balling into fists at his sides. “After what you did to me - after what you did to mi familia - you have the nerve--”

“I’ll be arrested, tried, and probably locked up somewhere until my bones turns yellow and the Final Death makes me crumble to dust,” Ernesto cut him off, and stood, taking a step towards him. Héctor supposed he meant to be intimidating, but he was not, not while looking so tired and dishevelled, with a hand pressed against his side - where, Héctor suspected, some ribs had been damaged. He just came across as desperate, and desperately defiant. 

“Ernesto--”

“I am bad,  _ bad _ man by all accounts,” he cut him off. “But nothing I did has anything to do with what your Socorro got herself into. This mess is of her own making. It is not my responsibility. Not my problem. And to use your own words,” he sneered, “you’ll  _ manage. _ ”

Héctor shook his head, trying to keep his anger and despair at bay. “Ernesto, please. Ezequiel can’t talk. If you don’t help--”

“It’s your own damn problem. Hate me if you want,” Ernesto added in a mocking imitation of Héctor’s voice, and his sneer grew even wider. “But  _ my _ mind is made--”

Héctor’s first connected with his jaw as though by its own accord with a very loud, very satisfying  _ crack. _ Ernesto was thrown back, head spinning, and had hardly the time to grasp it and keep it still before Héctor was on him, throwing them both on the ground. 

Ernesto cried out when Héctor’s weight pressed down on his damaged ribcage, but Héctor was beyond hearing him. He was beyond words. He could only raise his fist and bring it down again and again, like he had eight years ago - only that he was so much stronger than he’d been then, and Ernesto was unable to keep him from hitting him, had no security to call to for help. He could do nothing but cry out and try to shield his head from the blows.

_ “Don’t you dare!” _ Héctor growled, and stopped hitting him to grasp the collar of his coat. He held tight, glaring straight down into Ernesto’s widened eyes. For one time’s sake, he looked genuinely scared.  _ Good.  _ “You betrayed me! Not the other way around! Get it through your skull!” he snapped, shaking him. “You were like a brother to me, and you  _ killed _ me!”

“Like a brother! Hah! That’s rich! Do you think I  _ wanted _ to do it? I didn’t! You left me no  _ choice! _ You wanted to leave me behind--” Ernesto began, but Héctor was having none of it, and he slammed his head down against the hard pavement, causing him to trail off with a cry.

“Oh no you don’t!” he shouted. “I don’t know how you’ve been spinning it in your head for the past century - I don’t  _ care _ \- but I won’t let you keep doing that! You’re  _ not _ the good guy who defied the odds after horrid Héctor betrayed you! You are  _ not _ the beleaguered hero in some kind of grand tale of triumph lesser people cannot comprehend! It’s all a lie, smoke and mirrors like everything  _ else _ about you! All you are is a fake and a murderer, and now that the world knows it you can’t take it! It was your choice! You dug your hole, so now  _ lie _ in it!”

“Let me go!” Ernesto cried out, trying and failing to get Héctor off him, an edge of hysteria in his voice. He grasped his arms to try pushing him away, tried to buckle, but it was useless. Héctor ignored all of it, tightened his grip, and pressed on. 

“Oh, don’t like to hear that? _Good._ You didn’t think you had what it took to achieve your precious dream on your own and that _terrified_ you. You did _not_ do what you _had_ to. You did _not_ make a noble sacrifice to follow your dream. You are a _rat_ and you _murdered_ me because for once I had the nerve not to put _your_ wishes before everything else!”

“S-stop…!”

“Just admit it! Say it aloud, you coward!”

“FINE!” Ernesto screamed, and his hands clenched on Héctor’s arms - but he didn’t try to throw him off. It was like he didn’t have enough strength left to. Beneath Héctor, his fractured ribcage moved quickly in shallow breaths. “You’re the damn  _ musical genius _ and I’m just a fake! I murdered you, I stole your songs, I tore your perfect little family apart because I didn’t have what it took to make it on my own! You had all the talent, you wanted to keep it all for yourself and I couldn’t  _ let  _ you! Guilty as charged! Will you  _ shut up _ now? Just shut up!”

But he wouldn’t, couldn’t shut up. It was like an old wound, one he’d left dormant for years, had been ripped open - and it would never heal right if he didn’t let the venom out now, all of the poison Ernesto had put in him. 

“I just got started! I could have kept writing songs for you! I could have left you the songbook if you’d asked, and written more! You only had to  _ ask _ and I would have done all I could to help!” Héctor choked out, and oh God, his voice was shaking now, his grasp on the collar of Ernesto’s coat beginning to slacken. “I thought you could do it on your own. I was sure you could, I believed it even when  _ you  _ did not. So what if songwriting was not your strong point? You could sing, you could play, you were  _ born _ to perform. You had everything going for you, and I… I wanted to see you succeed more than anyone else.”

His last words faded, and for a few moments there was only silence. His grip on Ernesto was so slack he could have freed himself easily, but he wasn’t even trying; he was staring up at him, eyes wide, seemingly lost for words. In the end, it was Héctor to speak again. Something in his chest cavity hurt, like the throb of an infected wound.

“More than ninety years, and I never thought for a moment you might have killed me,” he heard himself saying. “I knew you’d stolen my songs, and after you died you never once sought me. My death had been so very convenient for you. It was so obvious and yet it never even crossed my mind. How could it?” he added, and let go of Ernesto’s coat with a sigh before standing, taking a step back. He found he was too tired told hold onto him, too tired for anger. “You were my best friend, had always been. But then I outgrew you, found a dream of my own and that wouldn’t do, would it?”

“I…” Ernesto began, but nothing else left his mouth other than a hiss of pain when he moved. He pulled himself up on his knees, but he was almost doubled over, a hand pressing on his side and one braced against the ground, his eyes shut. Héctor’s attack must have made the fractures to his ribs worse: he had felt them caving in further under his weight. 

Still, he suspected that was not the worst damage he had dealt him. Something  _ else _ had snapped, something that was already brittle and barely holding together - the very foundation of a castle of delusions that had had been taking blow after blow for the past eight years and that now, finally, had come crashing down. 

“I became a husband, I became a father, but  _ that _ wasn’t important to you,” Héctor heard himself saying, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. Now it was Ernesto who was kneeling on the pavement in pain while Héctor stood watching him, and maybe there was a sort of poetic justice there, but he got no joy from it. “No one was important to you but yourself. I mattered as long as I was  _ yours _ \- your best friend, your eternal little brother, your songwriter. Trying to be anything else amounted to betrayal. Am I right?”

“No,” Ernesto choked out, eyes squeezed shut. He was still doubled over, his forehead almost touching the cobblestones, and Héctor knew he wasn’t replying to him, not really. His was a desperate denial of everything - Héctor’s words, his current predicament, his broken bones,  _ everything _ that had happened in the past eight years since the moment the lie that was Ernesto de la Cruz had crumbled before the world. And now that it had finally crumbled before him, too, he refused to take a good look at himself.

Well, no matter. Héctor could see him well enough for both of them. 

“Of course I’m right. You wanted so desperately to break away from Santa Cecilia, but hell forbid I tried to break away from you. I was your writing monkey. I was supposed to  _ stay _ your writing monkey, everyone else be damned,” he added, and some strength returned to his voice, some of the rage burning again beneath the ashes. His hands clenched into fists and he took a step closer, towering over the broken heap on the ground that had once been his best friend, and then his murderer. Ernesto stayed still, refusing to look up, but tensed as though expecting a blow that did not come.

“I should have reported you the first time I saw you in Shantytown. I was an idiot for deciding to leave you in peace.”

“You  _ saw _ me…?”

“Oh, yes. I even spoke to you, but you were so drunk, of course you don’t remember,” Héctor spat. “And I was stupid enough to pity you, to decide to leave you be. You didn’t deserve it - you deserve  _ nothing. _ You poisoned me and left me to die, you tried to let me die a second time even if it meant killing a boy, but you know what is it that  _ really _ drives me up the wall?” he added, scowling. “It’s the fact you could think for even a moment, let alone for over  _ a century, _ that what you did was the right thing. That  _ you _ were the one wronged. I was on my own for over ninety years because of you! Imelda had to hold a family together on her own because of you! My little girl had to grow up without a father because of you! She called you  _ Tío, _ damn you, your were her Tío Neto, how  _ could _ you--!”

“Papá.”

Héctor trailed off, voice dying in his throat, and turned so quickly he almost popped the head of his femur out of its socket. That voice was familiar, of course, so very familiar and so very unexpected as well. 

Standing only a few feet from him, a rolling pin in her hand and her expression unreadable, there was Coco.


	12. The Grudging Blessing

The kid was cute, Ernesto had no trouble admitting that.

Maybe not _the_ most gorgeous little girl in the entire world as Héctor kept claiming - Ernesto suspected his judgment may be just a little biased there - but still rather cute, especially when she looked up at him and demanded for Tío Neto to pick her up. He complied, of course, because that’s what you have to do with a little kid. It was no problem.

Being lured into babysitting duty with little to no forewarning was, on the other hand, _definitely_ a problem.

“I did not agree to this,” muttered. If he’d known what trap awaited him, he’d have made up an excuse and headed for the cantina. He was rather sure he’d find Mariquita there that evening, and maybe convince her to join him for some fun after her shift.

Unaware of his thoughts, Héctor smiled apologetically. “It’s only for this evening, honest.”

“Héctor. You told me we were going to--”

“She already ate, so don’t worry about it. You’re welcome to take anything from the pantry. She needs to be in bed at nine on the dot, don’t let her stay up late. She likes it when you tell her a story, but a song is even better.”

“I did not agree to--”

“You can use my guitar if you want, it’s in the usual place.”

“You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“Coco! Come here and say hi to Tío Neto! He’ll stay with you while mamá and papá are out!”

“I did not agree-- what the hell, you’re not listening at a--” Ernesto began, only to trail off when Héctor suddenly turned and slammed a hand over his mouth.

“Hey! Watch your language! Don’t make me clean your mouth with soap!” he protested, gaining himself a silent glare that spelled, in no uncertain terms, _where_ Ernesto wanted to suggest he could shove the soap. He gave a somewhat sheepish smile, and pulled his hand back. “Sorry. I know I should have warned you. I was so busy making this evening out a surprise for Imelda, I sort of made it a surprise for you too.”

Ernesto sighed. “I hope she enjoys the surprise more than I did,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You owe me a drink.”

“Heh. Fair enough,” Héctor conceded, and turned to the door when he heard quick footsteps, and a little girl with braided hair came running in. “Ah, Coco! Look who’s here!”

“Tío Neto!”

“That’s right! Ooof, you’re getting so big!” Héctor laughed, picking her up and giving her a kiss on each cheek before placing her in Ernesto’s arms. The child immediately clung to his neck, babbling gibberish, just as Imelda walked in the room. She was wearing a red dress Ernesto had seen on her only few times and, to be entirely honest, she did look stunning.

How Héctor had managed to get her to marry him was still a mystery to Ernesto… and to Héctor himself, really, if the way he was looking at her with his mouth hanging open was anything to go by. Ernesto gave him a quick jab with his elbow, and Héctor recoiled.

“You look beautiful tonight! I mean, every night, but especially tonight,” he exclaimed with a goofy smile, and she smiled back before tilting her head towards Ernesto and Coco.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, and her husband shrugged.

“Of course!”

“Of course not,” Ernesto said, deadpanned, but he was already letting Coco climb on top of his head and he knew the battle was lost. He chuckled and lifted her up on his shoulders. “But we’ve had worse ideas that worked out, so go and have fun. You’ll find us both still in one piece, señora Rivera,” he added with a slight - and slightly mocking - bow. “I think.”

Imelda didn’t look entirely certain, but she smiled when her daughter waved at her over Ernesto’s head, at didn’t argue again. After kissing their child a couple of times each - which was a bit awkward, because she wouldn’t get off Ernesto’s shoulders and he had to crouch slightly to let them reach - both Héctor and Imelda left, and Coco waved at the closed door.

“¡Chau!”

“¡Hasta Luego!” Ernesto called out, but he found himself frowning at the closed door. It wasn’t the first time Héctor entirely cancelled plans on him to do something stupid or stupidly sappy with his family and it probably wouldn’t be the last, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Sooner or later, they would need to have a talk about--

“Tío Neto?”

Coco’s voice, as well as a pull at his ear, snapped Ernesto from his thoughts. He shrugged them off before speaking, glancing up. “So, it’s only us, huh? The _fun_ team,” he muttered, giving the child on his shoulders a jolt and causing her to burst in giggles. “A story or a song, right? So which - ow! Ow! Easy there, I need that hair!” he protested, and picked Coco up to hold her in front of his face. “There. Much better. Story or song, señorita Socorro?”

She gave him a gap-toothed grin, dangling her legs in the air. Héctor had had almost identical gaps in his teeth, too, when he’d been her age and Ernesto himself was only a few years older - when they’d be together day in day out, the entire town their playground. It had seemed so big to them, then; now it felt so tiny, so stale, so _suffocating._ Héctor felt the same, or at least so Ernesto had thought. Now he wasn’t so sure anymore, and he didn’t like that.

Unaware of his thoughts, Coco shrilled. “Song! Song!”

Ernesto laughed. “Just what I was hoping to hear! Let me get your papá’s guitar, sì?” he added, and went to fetch it, holding the child with one arm and mulling over one song he’d heard in the cantina a few nights earlier. He’d been wanting to try that one out with Héctor, just for the heck of it, but since he was off playing lovebirds with his wife and had left him on babysitting duty, he may as well play it for his kid.

Was it appropriate for a child? Would Héctor and Imelda approve? Did he care either way? The answer being ‘no’ to all three questions, Ernesto just shrugged and began playing the guitar that, barely a year later, he would take from the hands of his dying friend.

* * *

“Coco...”

Her papá sounded surprised and ashamed in equal measure, like she’d just walked into something he would have never wanted her to see. He immediately turned to her, giving his back to de la Cruz. In order circumstances, it would have been a terrible idea… but as de la Cruz didn’t move at all, she could tell he wouldn’t try to run off, much less to attack.

“Hello, papá. I figured I’d come see how this was going,” Coco said, smiling at him, and turned to de la Cruz. “I was expecting something more impressive, to be entirely honest,” she added, and put the rolling pin away. She’d brought it with her just in case, but it clearly was not needed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for the disappointment,” de la Cruz muttered, his voice a bit too flat to really come across as sarcastic. He stayed on his knees, a hand braced against the ground and the other pressed on his side, gaze fixed on the cobblestones. His entire body was tense, like he was expecting a blow to rain down on him any moment.

If her mother had been there, Coco knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for it to come… but she had managed to convince her mother to stay behind, and she’d handle it her way. Not that she wouldn’t have liked to hit him a few times, but this wasn’t about her, nor about her desire for retribution. It was about her family, about little Socorro going home to live her life, hopefully a long one, before she joined them there. The past couldn’t be rewritten, but the future was still theirs to shape. She had sacrificed her love for music to keep her family together, after all; she could renounce the momentary satisfaction of revenge, too.

After all, she wasn’t precisely a vengeful person. There was too much of her father in her.

“You know who I am,” she said in the end. After a moment of silence, Ernesto de la Cruz replied without looking up.

“... Sí.”

“I had forgotten about you, you know. I had forgotten about a lot of things. I lived to a very old age,” Coco went on, and took a step forward. She was aware of the shift in her father’s posture, as though he was preparing himself to leap in and shield her if need be, but she wasn’t especially worried. De la Cruz was in no shape to try anything, and a cry for help would get the rest of their family running there in a heartbeat. “Miguel brought back my memories of papá, but a lot was still lost. I regained it after I died, though, and I remembered you, only to be told it had been you to take my father from me. _Tío_ Ernesto.”

“Neto,” de la Cruz muttered, his voice oddly distant. “It was Tío Neto. You couldn’t say my name properly.”

“True. I remember a few of the songs you’d sing to me when no one else was there, too. Not terribly appropriate ones for a child, I may add.”

De la Cruz didn’t move, but had she seen the corners of his mouth twitch just a little? It was hard to tell, as he kept facing the ground. “Right. You kept asking what a _puta_ was afterwards. I bolted out of there before your mother could give me a concussion. Apparently, having some fun was a capital offense like--”

“Like murder?” Her voice came out sharper than she’d meant to, and de la Cruz fell silent. He closed his eyes, saying nothing, and she made an effort to soften her voice before speaking again. “You’re not looking at me.”

“Should I?”

“It would be appreciated. Do you need help to sit up?”

“So you can better hit me?”

“And why would I want to hit you?”

A snort. “You _know_ why,” he muttered, but there was no bite to his voice. He sounded dazed.

“Say it aloud.”

“Do you really need to hear it?”

“No. But I think you need to say it.”

“I _did_ \--”

“You screamed it to be left alone. There is a difference.”

There were a few, long moments of silence; Coco was vaguely aware that her papá had stepped by her side, his hand a reassuring weight on her shoulder, but her gaze stayed fixed on de la Cruz. She saw him squeezing his eyes shut, saw him drawing in a deep breath, and then she saw his shoulders sagging when he finally spoke. Was he afraid of her? Ashamed of himself at long last? Both? It was hard to tell. She wasn’t certain it truly mattered.

“I murdered your father,” he finally said, his voice somewhat raspy. There was another pause, then, “I never told you he was dead. How long did you wait for him to return?”

“My entire life.” Coco hadn’t expected him to ask that, and her own voice came out weaker than she’d meant it to. She’d had a long and fulfilling life, but somewhere in a corner of her mind there had always been a child who’d stared out of the window until it was too dark to see a thing, who woke up at night crying for her papá. Her father’s arm slipping around her shoulders just now helped, yes, but the sting was still there. It fueled some anger, but she forced herself to keep her voice even. She had lost too much to that man to risk losing even more because she let anger get the best of her.

“You took him from me, from _us,_ for a songbook. You almost let him be gone for good. You took music from our family and tried to take my great-grandson, too.”

“He would have destroyed everything. He _did,_ and now I’m left with nothing,” de la Cruz said, his voice bitter as bile. “I’d say we’re even.”

“Are we? If you were in my shoes right now, would you think so? What would _you_ do?”

That caused Ernesto de la Cruz to pause, and he said nothing for what felt like a long time. Then, finally, he pulled himself upright on his knees. He let out a grunt of pain and cradled both arms around his ribcage before he spoke, staring at the cobblestones. “I’d leave no bone unbroken,” he said, very quietly, and finally turned to look at her. Something about his gaze made her think of a beast at slaughter, waiting for the fatal blow in the neck in a sort of resigned stupor. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Coco sighed, and shook her head. “No. I’m here because you can do something to make up for what you did. Or begin to, at least,” she added, and stepped forward, letting her father’s arm slip off her shoulders. She pulled out a marigold petal from her pocket, holding it before de la Cruz. “Give my great-granddaughter your blessing. So that she can go home.”

De la Cruz blinked at the petal a couple of times, as though not comprehending, then he frowned and looked up at her again. “I can’t do anything. You need the boy’s family to do it, and they’re all gone.”

“You can. That’s what I was trying to tell you,” her papá spoke up, and stepped closer. He held out his hand, and de la Cruz stared at it warily before he sighed and reached to grasp it, letting her father help him up. He took a couple of steps back, as thought trying to keep some distance, a hand still shielding his side. He seemed more alert now, more present.

“What are you talking about?”

A sigh. “Ernesto, the boy’s great-great-grandmother was Maricarmen de la Fuente,” her papá said, and paused, waiting for a reaction.

As it turned out, said reaction was a very confused look. “... Who?”

“She-- wait, what? What do you mean, _who?_ Maricarmen! Did you just forget about her?”

De la Cruz tilted his head, frowning in thought for a moment before his expression brightened. “Oh! Was it the one with green eyes?”

“Uh? No, she didn’t--”

“No, right,” Ernesto cut him off with a wave of his hand. “That was Marisol. Was it… oh, the tall one? Curly hair, always wearing red?”

“Er… no?”

“Oh. How about-- no, wait, I met _that_ one way after you died. We starred in the same movie. I played a priest, she played a nun, there was this one time we were alone and still wearing our costumes when--”

“Ernesto! There is a child present!” her papá cried out, and immediately went to cover her ears, or at least the general area where they would have been. That caused de la Cruz to fall silent, his eyes shifting slowly from him to Coco, who just shrugged, and then back to him.

“Héctor. The _child_ has great-grandchildren,” he said.

“That’s irrelevant!” her papá protested, still holding his hands on the sides of her head like it would keep her from hearing anything. “Did you bed _every_ woman you met?”

“Don't be absurd, of course not. I never had a go at your wife, for one. I’m not crazy.”

“De la Cruz, I’m _warning_ you--"

“Plus, you know I never limited myself to women onl--"

“ _Not in front--_ Mariquita, Ernesto! I’m talking about Mariquita!”

De la Cruz paused, blinking. “Mariquita?” he repeated, then his perplexed look turned into recognition. “Oh! Of course I remember Mariquita! Why didn’t you say that right away? Who ever called her by her full name?”

“Everyone except you, really,” her papá said drily, finally removing his hands from the sides of Coco’s head, but de la Cruz ignored him.

“If she’s Cheque’s great-grandmother--”

“Great-great-grandmother.”

“Whatever that is. Why don’t you go to her for a blessing?”

A sigh. “Because she was forgotten, earlier tonight. She’s gone,” was the reply, and Coco thought she’d seen de la Cruz recoil slightly at his words before her father spoke again. “That leaves only you,” he added, and de la Cruz’s expression turned to confusion again.

“That makes no sense. I wasn’t related to Mariquita. I have nothing to do with--” he began, and trailed off when they _both_ raised an eyebrow, staring at him in silence. His eyes moved slowly back and forth between them. “Oh,” he finally said, comprehension dawning in. _“Oh.”_

“Yes, that was also my reaction when I realized. Have you _always_ been this dense?”

De la Cruz seemed too stunned to acknowledge the jab. “How would you know--"

“Maricarmen told me, before she faded.”

“She never told _me,_ though.”

“She knew better,” was the dry reply, and de la Cruz seemed to have nothing to retort to that. “She bore you a daughter, in case you care at all. Maricruz del Rio. She was born the night you killed me, and died in 1942. She was forgotten years ago, but her child had children of her own - and eventually, Ezequiel was born.”

De la Cruz seemed to be still processing what he’d been just told for a few moments, then he sighed and pinched what would have been the ridge of his nose if he’d still had one. “I have starred in cheesy movies with better plot twists than this one,” he muttered.

“This is not a movie, Ernesto.”

“I’d hope so. If it were, whoever wrote the script would be fired,” was the sour reply, and  Coco stepped forward. There was no more time for idle talk, not with dawn so close.

“Ezequiel is your great-great-grandson. The poor boy is distraught that he can’t do give Socorro his blessing, but you can do it on his behalf,” she added, and held out the marigold petal again, staring straight up at him. De la Cruz held her gaze, but not for long; the next moment he was looking over her shoulder, and straight at her father.

The silence stretched on, and Coco didn’t turn to see the look on her papá’s face as he stared back: she only waited, her own gaze fixed on de la Cruz, whose expression was unreadable. Finally, after what felt like a long time, she heard her papá speak.

“We’ll drop all charges. I promise.”

“I don’t care what you do,” de la Cruz said dully. “There is nothing you can give or do that could possibly--”

“It would mean the world to Cheque,” Coco said quietly. “He cares for Socorro too much to see her die, even to keep her with him. And she refused to go anywhere until she knew he’d be safe. He is safe now, but he will never forgive himself, or _you,_  if Socorro dies tonight.”

That caused de la Cruz to flinch, if just barely, and his eyes flickered back to Coco, to the petal she was holding. She found his gaze, and held it. “I waited and waited for my father to return to me, and all along he was trapped here. If Socorro doesn’t get a blessing, her parents will wait for their whole lives, too.”

“I’m not responsible for her--”

“You never let my papá come home,” Coco cut him off. “I won’t ask how could you do a such thing. That cannot be changed either way. But if you were ever his friend at all, let _her_ go home now.”

Ernesto de la Cruz worked his jaw as though to say something, but no word left him. In the end, he turned away from both of them and let out a long breath, shoulders dropping. He said nothing, gaze low, and just held out his hand. Coco smiled, relief making her feel so much lighter all of a sudden.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and placed the petal on his palm. He stared at it and his fingers twitched; for an instant she feared he was about to crush it - even later, she wouldn’t be able to shake off the feeling he’d at least thought about it - but instead his hand closed around it slowly, his grip slack enough not to damage it.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice tight. “Before I change my mind.”

The sigh of relief that left her papá was so loud, Coco could almost believe it could be heard across the Land of the Dead. He opened his mouth to say something - to thank him, maybe? He was so relieved he just might - but before he could, someone else spoke up.

“Well well well, isn’t this _cute._ I feel almost sorry for intruding.”

The voice was sudden and unexpected, but not new. Coco turned to see the same woman they’d met earlier standing before them, one of the men - the big one - by her side and, most worrying of all, a pistol in her hand. It looked very antiquated, but it might just work well enough to shatter someone’s skull. Namely, de la Cruz’s: it was him the mouth of the pistol was aimed at.

“Anita, please, don’t,” her papá spoke up, a note of urgency in his voice. “Socorro - my great-great-granddaughter, she--”

“Needs his blessing, yes,” was the almost bored reply. “I’ve heard enough to gather that much and, unlike someone I will not be naming, I draw the line at trapping living kids in the Land of the Dead. Give me some credit there,” she said, although she did not lower the gun. “He can go and give the blessing. _Then_ we’ll take him to the police.”

“We are going to drop the charges against him, Anita.”

A shrug. “A stupid move if you ask to me, but go right ahead. I’ll have cashed in the reward anyway. Whether he stays locked up or walks right out will make no difference to me,” she replied. Her gaze moved to de la Cruz, and turned colder. “I can’t promise I’ll hand you over in one piece. Is there a bone you don’t mind me breaking too much? Asking for a frien--”

“Can you promise _me_ you won’t harm him? As a personal favor?” her papá blurted out, taking a step forward. It didn’t surprise Coco in the slightest, but it did gain him a stunned look from de la Cruz. The woman raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look quite as taken aback.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re ridiculously sentimental?”

“Plenty of people, several times,” her papá replied with a small grin. “So… you take him, no problem, but hand him over in one piece. Por favor?”

Anita rolled her eyes, then sighed. She had no reason to promise them a thing, Coco knew, and it came as a small relief when she did. “Ah well. It wasn’t even him to drop that cage, after all - that was the little outlaw,” she muttered. “You have my word he won’t be harmed,” she added, causing the man standing next to her to snort, clearly displeased.

“Your word. Not mine,” he muttered, glaring at de la Cruz… only to wince when Anita turned, casually pointing the pistol straight at his skull.

“My word, yes. And what is _that_ to you?” she asked, and the man hesitated for a moment before dropping his shoulders, as though conceding defeat.

“My command,” he grumbled, gaining himself a smile that looked even sincere.

“Good boy,” she said approvingly, and put the pistol back to her belt. “For the record, de la Cruz - if it were _me_ you’d poisoned, each and every one of your bones would be snapped in two and in a separate block of concrete at the bottom of some canal right now. Just so you know.”

“Noted,” de la Cruz said dully, and added nothing more as they headed out of the alley, back to where the rest of the family was waiting.

* * *

Even though he was her best friend, Socorro knew very little about Cheque’s family - mostly because, really, he knew very little himself.

He didn’t know who his father was, he’d told her once, in a rare moment he felt like talking - well, writing - about it. He knew his mamá’s name had been Celia del Rio and that she’d had a much older half-brother called Bernardo who had left home when she was little, never to be seen again, because their mother had been ‘a control freak’. Celia had left too, once old enough, but she hadn’t done very well on her own.

He also knew that his abuela lived in a nearby town - he didn’t know which one - and he remembered, very vaguely, seeing her once, only weeks before being left in foster care. His mamá had tried to ask her to take him in, or so he assumed now. All he knew at the time was that the woman glaring down at him looked scary, with cold black eyes and a hard-set mouth. The only word he remembered her uttering at him - _bastardo_ \- had sounded like the crack of a whip, and she’d called his mamá a lot worse before she’d picked him up and left quickly, trying and failing to hold back tears. Ezequiel had never seen his grandmother again, and he hoped he never would. His fosterers were so much nicer, he’d added, and had never called him a bad name.  

Socorro couldn’t fault him for that and, after returning home, she’d given Abuelita the biggest hug. She’s asked her how could someone be so _mean_ to her grandchild, too, and Abuelita had shaken her head.

“Not everyone is born in a family who deserves them, Coquito,” she’d said. “Good thing we’re looking after him, no?”

Her words rang even truer now that she knew a mean grandmother and an addicted mother were not even the worst to be found in Cheque’s family - that a murderer was in it, too. But that was all right because their family would still be looking after him, dead or alive.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing, chico,” Tía Rosita was repeating for what was probably the fourth time in a row, holding onto Cheque so tight it was a small wonder she hadn’t cracked a rib or two. Overall, he looked far more stunned than upset by the revelation. “We won’t let that man get anywhere near you again. And if he tries, I...I’ll sit on him!”

“Realistically, there is simply not a chance he would be allowed to be your legal guardian - next of kin or not,” Tía Victoria agreed, and Tío Óscar was nodded.

“Absolutely! And bureaucracy for adoption is a nightmare, but if we can speed things up…”

“... And we _can,_ none of them will dare say no to our sister, you wait and see…”

Whatever he said next was lost to Socorro, because she’d turned her attention to Mamá Imelda, who was scowling at the entrance of the street her husband and daughter had disappeared into, pacing back and forth.

“I am going in,” she finally snapped, and Papá Julio tentatively held out his hand.

“We promised Coco we would wait--”

“You heard yelling, too! That was Héctor!”

“Yes, but he sounded _angry,_ not in trouble,” Miguel pointed out. He looked worried, too, biting his lower lip bloody. “He and Mamá Coco are right, we… we just can’t risk it. Everything depends on de la Cruz now. He needs to be convinced. We should trust them--”

“Oh, I know how to _convince_ him--!”

“I’m... pretty sure that wouldn’t count as _convincing_ him,” Miguel said, and Mamá Imelda scoffed, conceding the point. Beside her Pepita growled, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Fine. Fine. We are giving them five more minutes, and then we--”

Her word were covered by a sudden roar, and Pepita rose to her feet, lurching forward. There was a cry, and they all turned to see that Papá Héctor and Mamá Coco were back… and that de la Cruz was with them, too, a scruffy wreck of a man who hardly looked like the man Socorro had seen in pictures and bits of old movies.

He’d stumbled back when Pepita had roared and he was on the ground, trying to back away while looking at the giant winged jaguar with nothing short of pure terror, one arm up to shield his head. Pepita took a menacing step forward, or tried to: the next moment there was furious yapping and four tiny alebrijes moved like bolts of lighting, coming to stand between her and the cowering man, barking and growling and trying to nip at paws much larger than themselves to keep her away. That caused Pepita to rear back, blink, and look back at Mamá Imelda in clear confusion.

 _What do they think they’re doing?,_ that look clearly said. In other circumstances it might have even been funny, but Mamá Imelda clearly was not amused.

“Leave him be,” she said, instead, reaching to put a hand on her alebrije’s flank, and Pepita crouched down with a snort… although her eyes stayed fixed on de la Cruz, as did everyone else’s. “Your alebrijes understand what loyalty is, at least. You might want to learn a thing or two from them,” Mamá Imelda spoke coldly.

De la Cruz grunted, standing up with clear effort and entirely ignoring the helping hand Papá Héctor was holding out for him. He took a step forward, a hand pressing on his side, eyeing Pepita warily. “And _you_ might want to keep that beast away from me if you want any blessing at all,” he snapped back, but he didn’t really sound that threatening. He looked like he could barely stand, and his glare gave in to surprise when his gaze paused on Miguel. “Wha-- you? What are _you_ doing-- I’m not giving you a blessing!”

Miguel looked back at him, unimpressed. “No worries, _I_ don’t need a blessing from you. I never did,” he pointed out, crossing his arms… then he smirked, an eyebrow raised. “You’re _shorter_ than I remembered,” he added, leaning forward a little, and de la Cruz scowled. He wasn’t _short,_ but still a good inch shorter than Miguel, and Socorro wondered how long ago was it that de la Cruz had tried to murder him.

With a sigh, Mamá Coco stepped forward. “Not now, dear. He agreed to give Socorro his blessing,” she said. “That’s what matters now.”

Had he really? Socorro could hardly believe it. She turned to glance at Cheque, who looked back at her with a look of pure relief on his face… until someone - the woman called Anita, what was she doing there? - spoke up.

“Ah, so you are the little bandito,” she muttered, walking closer and then crouching down. She peered at Cheque before laughing at his scowl. “Hah! Look at that angelic little face. No wonder you fell for it, Fabricio,” she added, causing the man who was with her to grumble.

Tía Rosita scowled, putting both hands on Cheque’s shoulders. “What do you want from him?” she demanded to know, clearly ready to wage war if needed, but Anita only shrugged.

“From him? Nothing,” she said, standing up. “His great-great-grandpa, on the other hand, will be coming with us as soon as he’s done with the blessing. Which had better happen now, really. Not much time left to sunrise,” she added, and turned back to de la Cruz. “If you want to pretend you’re a somewhat decent excuse of a human being, this is the moment to do it.”

De la Cruz shot another glare in Miguel’s general direction, then avoided to look at Papá Héctor at all, and reached into the pocket of his coat to pull out something - a marigold petal. He stared at it for a moment, and drew in a deep breath.

“There will be a condition,” he finally said, very quietly, causing Miguel to scowl. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mamá Imelda got there first, her voice seething with fury.

“We’ll be accepting no conditions from you, de la Cruz!” she spat, gaining herself an unimpressed look.

“Then you can get looking for someone else to give her a blessing in the next ten minutes,” he said, causing her to grind her teeth again, clearly wanting to hit him with her boot more than anything in the world. Beside her, Miguel had clenched his fists.

“What do you have in mind, you--” he began, only to pause when Papá Héctor put a hand on his shoulder and spoke, his voice quiet, before the situation could escalate.

“What kind of condition, Ernesto?”

De la Cruz stared at him for a moment, then he turned without replying, and his gaze found Socorro. He walked up to her, no more than a few steps, and knelt, holding the petal out.

“Socorro. I give you my blessing to go home,” he began. Before Socorro’s eyes, the petal began glowing. Around her, her family waited with baited breath… and de la Cruz’s eyes moved away from her  face. He turned to his right where Cheque was, Tía Rosita’s hands resting protectively on both of his shoulders. “And to… to always put Ezequiel’s photo up on your ofrenda,” he added, causing the petal to grow brighter.

There was a huge, collective sigh of relief and maybe a couple of noises of surprise, but Socorro hardly heard any of it. She blinked at de la Cruz, taken aback. “That’s it?” she found herself saying, and smiled before turning back to look at Cheque. He looked surprised, too, and was staring at de la Cruz like he was growing a second head. Still, when Socorro spoke again, he turned to her. “Of course I will. His photo is already on our ofrenda and it will be there every year,” she promised, and Cheque smiled back at her before his gaze paused on de la Cruz… and his face went blank, that scary blankness she had seen once before.

For a moment he and de la Cruz just stared at each other, no expression showing on either of their faces and suddenly, for the very first time, Socorro could see the resemblance. It was somewhat eerie because she hadn’t thought at all they looked alike until that one moment, but she had no time to feel uncomfortable about it. Cheque reached into his pocket to pull out something - the pen he’d taken from the clerk’s desk, only hours and yet an eternity earlier - and began clicking fast, his eyes moving to Socorro.

It was a short message in the morse-ish code they had come up with together, one meant for her ears only: a request.

_Can you make an ofrenda for him, too?_

It wasn’t a request Socorro had expected, no more than she’d expected de la Cruz’s own, but it was just as easy to comply with, so she nodded and smiled at Cheque again. After all, Miguel had set up a secret ofrenda for him before. She could do that, too. “Sure. Will do!” she promised, then, “You… you come see me next year,” she added, and Cheque nodded.

It hurt to say that, because a year felt like such a _long_ time, and in that time she’d grow older and he never would. Soon she’d be older than he ever got to be, then she would become an adult, and then _old,_ and he would forever stay her childhood friend. It wasn’t _fair,_ because they were supposed to grow up together. He was supposed to hit that growth spurt and get taller than her, and she was supposed to act all annoyed about it.

There were so many things they had wanted to do, but there was nothing she could do to bring him back; Tío Óscar - or was it Tío Felipe? - had told her that the dead who lingered in the Land of the Living after Día de los Muertos would turn to dust, never to be seen again, and she didn’t want that to happen. At least now she knew that they could make up for the lost time someday, once she crossed over to the other side.

They would look funny together, even more than Mamá Coco and Papá Héctor acting like father and daughter with her looking so much older, and the thought made her smile a bit.

_They’ll look after him. He’ll be okay. I can go._

Biting her lower lip, Socorro turned to de la Cruz. He was still staring at Cheque, his eyes somewhat empty, but he blinked when she spoke again.

“I should kick you _real_ hard for trying to hurt Miguel,” she said, scowling, and she had a half idea to do just that - but Miguel began to frantically shake his head behind de la Cruz, and she rolled her eyes. Right, fair enough. No kicking the guy who was supposed to send her home. “But I won’t,” she conceded. “So… thanks for sending me back, I guess.”

Ernesto de la Cruz stared at her for a moment, as though wondering how she’d come to be there, and then scowled. “I absolutely loathe you and your entire family, and if I had anything to gain from your death I’d crush this petal right now,” he informed her, but he sounded more tired than anything else. He held out the petal to her, and looked away. “Just take it and get out of my sight.”

Sheesh, talk about grumpy. Socorro glared back for a moment, but decided not to retort and looked at her family. She smiled, and they all smiled back; Miguel had a hand on Mamá Coco’s shoulder, and she was covering that hand with her own.

“I’m happy I met you. Can’t wait to see you again and drive you crazy all the time,” she told them, and her smile turned in a grin when she looked at Miguel. “See you on the other side?”

Miguel grinned back. “I’ll be right after you so you can resume driving me crazy right away, every day, until I die.”

“Have a safe journey back, Coquito!”

“We’ll see you next year!”

“And give Elena a hug from me, will you?”

Socorro nodded, and her gaze paused on Cheque again. He was huddled against Tía Rosita’s side, and he nodded at her. _Next year,_ he mouthed, and she grinned despite the fact her vision was starting to get all blurry.

_Next year._

One last look at him, at all of them, and Socorro reached for the petal with skeletal fingers before she could cry. There were petals where everywhere, and then she was _falling._

Socorro Rivera opened her eyes to see the last few fading stars in the sky above, a cracked whiteboard on the ground beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, that scene with the chihuahualebrijes trying to protect Ernesto from Pepita? That was literally the FIRST thing about this fic to be thought up. Everything else just... sort of followed.  
> I don’t have the slightest control over the shit I write, is what I’m saying.


	13. The Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: The Long-Ass Chapter That Refused To End.
> 
> Also, did you know that one of the Coco deleted scenes has given us [a glimpse at what happens if someone from the Land of the Dead fails to cross the bridge back by dawn](http://heyheyitsjuju.tumblr.com/post/171608628177/so-i-was-talking-earlier-about-this-deleted-scene)? No?  
> Well now you do and it’s gonna be relevant.

When the petals disappeared and Socorro with them, Héctor let out one of the biggest sighs of relief he could remember heaving. He wasn’t the only one: they all did. Miguel looked like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and Imelda’s hand found his own.

He knew that they would have to talk soon - that she deserved and certainly expected an apology and an explanation over his silence regarding Ernesto’s whereabouts - but for now, there was only relief. He squeezed her hand back, and smiled.

“She takes after you a lot, you know,” he said, and her mouth quirked upwards for a moment - then her gaze moved to Ernesto, and the smile disappeared.

He hadn’t moved at all: he was still kneeling down, the now unlit petal gone from his fingers and his gaze fixed on the pavement. Finally, slowly, he lowered the hand that had been holding up the petal and placed it over his damaged ribs, his shoulders tensing. With his only bargaining chip gone, he looked like he was bracing himself for a blow - but none came, neither physical nor verbal. When Coco broke the silence, her voice was quiet.

“Thank you for sending her home.”

Ernesto scoffed. “I didn’t do it for any of you,” he said, his voice hollow.

Imelda scowled, and her hand was halfway to her boot when Ezequiel moved first, causing her to still; he let go of Rosita’s gown to walk up to Ernesto, the alebrijes close behind. He crouched and wrote something on the whiteboard that was clearly meant for Ernesto’s eyes only, because none of them got to read it. Ernesto let out a snort. “Oh, is that what you asked of her? I’m moved,” he muttered, only to pause when Ezequiel wrote something else.

This time, he stayed silent for a few moments before he shook his head slowly. “I’m not your family, niño. Only a relative. Though I do see the resemblance now. Must be the dashing good looks, or the nose,” he said, the ghost of a smile on his face. He seemed to hesitate before he reached to brush back the boy’s tousled hair. “There, much better. You’re going _tibia_ all right,” he added. Ezequiel let out a snort that might have been a snicker, and threw his arms around his neck. Ernesto stilled, taken aback and hand still in mid-air, before he sighed and lowered his arm to hold him back for a few moments.

When he spoke again, he did so with his eyes shut.  “... Héctor.”

He didn’t need to add anything else. “We’ll look after him. We promised.”

Ernesto let out a long breath, opened his eyes and let go of Ezequiel. Rosita moved in to gently pull the boy away; he looked saddened, but not surprised - the look of someone who has been left behind before, and who knows it’s for the best. Ernesto slowly pulled himself on his feet, glancing down at his alebrijes.

“You stay with him,” he added, causing the tiny dogs to lower their ears, huge eyes almost unbearably sad. Ernesto turned away from them to look at Anita, his own eyes empty. He was the very portrait of defeat. “I believe there is a reward you’re after.”

For a moment she looked almost confused, like she’d forgotten why she was there, but she recovered quickly and nodded. “Sí. Come with us without giving trouble, and-- Fabricio, stop _crying,_ seriously - we _might_ even forget the stunt you and the kid pulled at the warehouse.”

“How generous of you,” Ernesto said drily, and put up no resistance at all when they moved in to tie his hands behind his back. Ezequiel scowled and moved to step forward, but Rosita’s hand on his shoulder and a silent shake of Ernesto’s head were enough to stop him. The boy turned to Héctor, and he found himself calling out without thinking.

“I’ll keep my promise. I’ll drop the charges,” he said, not quite knowing if he was talking to Ernesto or to Ezequiel. He half-expected Imelda to say something, to protest against the idea, but she said nothing. Ernesto scoffed without turning.

“I told you, I don’t _care_ what you do,” he muttered, and that was it. Héctor could only stare at his retreating back for several moments, at a loss for words, before Victoria spoke suddenly.

“It’s almost dawn. We need to send Miguel home, too.”

“Oh, of course!” Coco exclaimed, suddenly alarmed, and they all turned to look at Miguel. His skull was beginning to show beneath his face, like it had eight years earlier. That had been close, much too close, and Héctor didn’t want to waste another minute. Luckily, Coco was already pulling a petal out of her pocket. “Miguel, I give you my blessing-- oh. What is it, dear?” she asked when Ezequiel suddenly pulled at her gown. He looked up at Miguel, and reached into his pocket to pull out a… a… what was that?

“Ah, Socorro’s player. You had it when that van hit you, didn’t you?” Miguel asked, crouching in front of the boy. Ezequiel nodded, and held it up, only for Miguel to take his hand and close his fingers around it. “No. It’s all right, chamaco. I’m sure Socorro would want you to keep it. Think of her when you listen to her favorite songs,” he added, and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t give our familia too much of a headache, all right? That _does_ include running off with wanted people and ticking off criminals,” he added, winking.

Ezequiel nodded, holding the player to his chest, and gave a somewhat sheepish grin. Miguel smiled back, and ruffled his hair, laughing at the subsequent huff of protest. “Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he snickered, and stood again, turning to Héctor. “Good luck with this one, guys. And... sorry for all the mess. I’ll have a new song for you next year to make up for it.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!”

“It was nice catching up, chamaco.”

“And meeting Socorro properly!”

“Oh, can I take a look at that player, Cheque? How does it work?”

“We won’t break it, honest…”

“... Just take it apart to see how it works…”

“Sun’s almost out,” Imelda spoke up, a note of urgency in her voice. “Coco, the blessing.”

“Of course.” Coco held up the petal, and smiled up at her great-grandson. “Miguel, you have my blessing to go home, and give Elena… no, give _everyone_ your biggest hug from me,” she said. The petal glowed, and Miguel smiled.

“Of course, Mamá Coco. Love you,” he said, his voice breaking up just a bit, and reached for the petal - and then he was gone in the blink of an eye. Héctor let out another sigh of relief, reaching to put a hand around Imelda’s shoulders, and she didn’t move away from his touch.

They would still need to talk but, for now, he felt it was enough.

* * *

“Miguel!”

“Ooof! Easy there! I’ve got a stomach again and might just throw up if you jump on it!”

“I couldn’t see you coming back! I was getting worried!”

“Oye, I’m the big brother here. I’m the one who has to worry. Don’t leave me out of a job.”

Socorro laughed, and Miguel found that the sound was worth enduring all of the worries in the world, all of the terror a human being could bear. He picked her up despite her protests that she was _too big_ to be picked up now, and twirled with her a couple of times among the graves, causing her to laugh again. They walked away from Mamá Coco’s grave, past de la Cruz’s defaced mausoleum, and paused by Cheque’s tomb. The cracked whiteboard was back on top of it, and a few words had been added to it, in Socorro’s round handwriting.

_I knew you would never._

They were quiet for a few moments, then Socorro broke the silence. “I need to tell Abuelita he’s all right. And his fosterers, too. I promised him I would,” she said. “Oh! And I’ll get our school to make him a plaque so that no one forgets him! And I want to learn how to make shoes so that Abuelita and I can make him new ones for next year! And… and something he can play! Just not a guitar, because people would expect him to sing along and he can’t. Maybe one of those funny flutes, what’s its name...”

“An ocarina?” Miguel guessed.

“Yes! I’ll get him one of those! And… can you write a song for him, too?”

Miguel laughed. “Your wish is my command. I’ll write a song for him and play it next year, so that he can hear it,” he promised. They kept walking to the exit of the cemetery, coming up with ideas and plans for the following Día de los Muertos, as a street dog who was not a street dog at all ran up to them and began walking by their side, heading back home.

Above them, dawn was breaking.

* * *

“Is he sleeping?”

“Yes, fast asleep.”

“Well, he had an eventful night. Aw, he’s sucking his thumb! Isn’t he adorable?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about letting the dogs on the bed with him, though. It’s not hygenic.”

“Oh, please. When you and Elena were children, you kept sneaking that pet goat of yours in your room all the time.”

“Diego was a very clean goat, papá. We don’t know where _those_ have been.”

“Well, they are alebrijes. Not _just_ dogs.”

“Pepita is an alebrije, too, but she doesn’t try to climb in bed with people.”

“You know that she would if she could fit through the door in the first place.”

“Fair enough.”

“We’re all out of spare rooms now, though.”

“We have to add new ones. Can’t leave Elena and Franco without one when they come!”

“Oh, I don’t think there is any rush. They looked well and healthy yesterday evening. They might just live longer than I did. Now come away from the door, let the boy rest. I think we all could use a good pot of coffee…”

Imelda watched her daughter lead the rest of the family towards the kitchen, smiling faintly. She would join them in a minute, but for now she wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet, given how frantic the night had been. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Peace and quiet. Peace and--

“... Imelda?” Héctor’s voice caused her to open her eyes, recoiling a little. He had walked in so silently that she hadn’t even heard his footsteps - and to think that usually she could even tell what kind of shoes someone was wearing by just listening to them walking. She turned to see her husband standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“Dropped all charges?” she asked, unable to keep some distaste out of her voice. She didn’t like the idea, not at all… but Héctor had promised as much, and de la Cruz had, at least, given Socorro the blessing she needed. It was something she could not ignore.

Héctor nodded. “Yes. They’ll release him next week. I… can we talk a minute?”

Imelda knew right away what it was that he wanted to talk about, of course. She was tired, but may as well do it. She had spent enough years refusing to listen to him and, justified as her anger may have been, she did regret it knowing what she knew now. So she drew in a deep breath, crossed her arms, and looked straight back at him.

“You had known where he was hiding for years,” she stated, and Héctor nodded.

“Yes. The first time I spotted him, I… I honestly just forgot all about it. It was the day Coco joined us,” he added, and his expression melted in an almost dreamy smile. It made it nearly impossible for her to keep frowning, because she remembered so well how overjoyed he had been to see their daughter again. It had taken a very, very long time before he let go of her to let anybody else hold her, and even longer for him to resume speaking coherently.

By then they had been working for a few months to rekindle their relationship. It had been so long, so much had happened, and they couldn’t really pick right up from where they had left off. Music united them as it did before, but more was needed to fix something that had been shattered such a long time ago… and Coco’s arrival had been a turning point, balm to old wounds. That had been the day Imelda had known, beyond doubt, that they were going to make it work. And they had; they’d come too far to let de la Cruz come between them again. So, at the very least, she could give him the benefit of the doubt.

As long as he had a good explanation, of course.

“But the second time I saw him, I… I did decide to leave him be. I know you’re angry,” Héctor was saying, unaware of her thoughts. “And I am sorry--”

“And why do you think I’m angry?” she cut him off. Héctor fidgeted a little with his hat.

“Because… I put our family in danger. I let _Ernesto_ be a danger.”

A sigh. “That is what terrified me,” Imelda admitted. “The thought that monster could succeed where he’d failed eight years ago… I hadn’t been so scared in a long time.”

Héctor smiled a little. “And it didn’t show at all.”

“Everyone was counting on me to know what to do,” Imelda said. That had been true that night as it had been eight years earlier: she couldn’t afford to show how terrified she was.

“I… I am sorry. It was my fault. And it all ended up on your shoulders again,” Héctor muttered, but Imelda shook her head.

“It wasn’t your fault. Looking back now, perhaps it was for the best that he was never arrested,” she added, and smiled a bit at Héctor’s stunned expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know what I’m getting at - Ezequiel could never give any blessing. Maricarmen would have still faded away too early, and de la Cruz would have been our only chance regardless. If he’d been arrested, tried and imprisoned years ago…”

“... He would have never given his blessing tonight,” Héctor finished, and nodded. “Right. Couldn’t really promise to drop all charges after the trial had ended, right?” he added with a small grin. Imelda nodded, but there was a moment of silence that said, loud and clear, that they both knew that promise hadn’t been the reason why Ernesto de la Cruz gave Socorro his blessing. Maybe there was a shred of decency there, after all, but it hardly mattered. It wasn’t de la Cruz Imelda wanted to talk about, now or ever again.

“It worked out in the end,” she  said, then, “You know it wasn’t you leaving him be that really made me angry, don’t you?”

Héctor nodded, the small smile fading. He reached to hold an arm close to his side, as he often did when he felt guilty. “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s because I never told you I’d found him. You, or… anyone else in the family.”

“Sì. De la Cruz didn’t _only_ murder you - in doing so, he hurt our entire family. And you are part of it now. When you found him, you should have never kept it for yourself. We could have left him alone if you _really_ wished to, but we should have decided together.”

“I know.”

Imelda sighed. “Why _did_ you leave him be?”

Héctor hesitated, and looked away before speaking again. “I guess I pitied him,” he admitted. “I know I shouldn’t, after all he did - to me, to you, to Miguel, to Coco. I was knocked down so many times and one would think I’d have been satisfied to see him in my place, but… it was just sad. To look at him and think, _this was my best friend._ Like Cheque and Socorro, you have seen them - we were that close, before I even knew you. We grew up together, he even saved my life once or twice, so what happened? And I know that _he_ happened, that the blame is his and not mine,” he added quickly, much to Imelda’s relief.

It had taken a lot of time for Héctor to stop blaming himself for everything. If only he’d never left, if only he’d thought of leaving the songbook to Ernesto, if only he hadn’t dismissed how desperate he’d been, if only he hadn’t taken the drink - if only, if only, if only. So much blame that should land squarely on Ernesto, and no one else. At least he knew that now, but Imelda could tell it was easier to blame himself than to admit that he had been horribly wronged by someone he’d loved like a brother.

Seeing Socorro trying so desperately to help her best friend, shouldering so much responsibility as she hoped against hope that _he would never,_ no matter how bad things looked… well, it had helped her to really see why for the first time.

“... But it was still hard to think about, and I didn’t want to. If I just walked away, I could almost pretend that it hadn’t really been him. That I’d imagined it and it had really only been bad luck. I didn’t want to think about him again,” Héctor was going on. “There would have been a trial, witness statements, a lot of media attention just when it had died down. I didn’t want it to consume any more of my time again. Not after I had you - all of you - back with me,” he added, and looked up at her. “You were all I wanted to focus on.”

His words might have been enough on their own, but it was the look he gave her that sealed it: it was the open and utterly vulnerable look of someone who had been nothing but completely sincere. With a sound that was half a sigh, half a laugh, Imelda crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace at once, a hand reaching to stroke her hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“I know. You’ll drive me crazy one of these days.”

“Maybe, but not too much. Only un poco loca,” he said, and that made her laugh a bit. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I will never keep a thing from you again.”

“You had better,” she retorted, and they shared a quick kiss before she pulled back and tilted her head towards the kitchen. “They’re making coffee. I don’t know about you, but I need it.”

Héctor nodded. “Sure. I wonder if they’re using the coffee machine Óscar and Felipe built.”

Imelda blinked, an alarm bell beginning to ring in her mind. “They built a coffee machine?”

“Yes, they said it would brew faster than any other, blah blah, something about pressure and steam, blah. They wanted to try it out soon. Huh… didn’t they mention it to you?”

The alarm bell turned into a blaring siren. Óscar and Felipe were gifted, but their prototypes did have a tendency to malfunction, and rather badly at times. That had been how they had died, and Imelda remembered all too well the sense of helpless exasperation when they’d turned up in the Land of the Dead together, mere _months_ after her death, looking all the world like chastised schoolchildren. Without her supervision, things got out of hand quickly.

“They knew better,” Imelda all but snarled, and turned to march into the kitchen, to put a stop to whatever disaster was about to happen.

Too late. There was a sudden, furious hissing sound that turned into a whistle and then a bang that stopped Imelda on her tracks, followed by several shrieks, and bout of barking. Then, Felipe called out.

“We’re okay!”

“That was calculated!”

“Sort of.”

“That wall needed a new hand of paint, anyway.”

“We’ll do it!”

“As soon as we get that lid out if it…”

There was laughter coming from the kitchen and, Imelda realized, from behind her as well. She turned to see that Héctor was almost bent on two, snickering madly despite his clear effort not to. He gave her an apologetic grin.

“Hehe! I mean, sorry! It’s just--” he tried, but Imelda didn’t get to hear whatever he meant to say next. She had no idea if it was the exhaustion or the still lingering sense of relief - maybe both - but the next moment there was more laugher and it was coming from her own mouth.

The rest of the family stepped out of the kitchen - and a boy with tousled hair and eyes full of sleep stepped out of his new bedroom with four yapping alebrijes in tow - to find her and Héctor holding onto each other, cackling and cackling, seemingly unable to stop.

* * *

Honestly, Ezequiel didn’t see it as lying or anything.

No one had asked whether or not he planned to stay in touch with Neto - de la Cruz - and he’d never promised _not_ to, either. So, all was good. It was only a matter of keeping that for himself. It was no one’s business but his own and besides, if anyone had asked him to explain why he’d want to keep in touch he wouldn’t be able to explain it at all. He just _did._

He wasn’t going to meet him, because he _had_ almost hit him with a hammer - fine, he’d hit him with a brick first, but he maintained that was justifiable all things considered - and he wasn’t an idiot, thank you so very much. But he had given Socorro his blessing, and he’d left the alebrijes with him, too.

That latter bothered him a lot, now that he’d had a few days to think about it . Diablo had bonded with him, but the other three were restless and Ezequiel was sure being away from Ernesto was the reason why. It wasn’t fair: they were Ernesto’s alebrijes, not his own, and they were all that he had left. They were not _supposed_ to be apart.

So when he’d heard Héctor mentioning he would be released that day, Ezequiel had known that the right thing to do would be sending them back, and maybe write a few lines while he was at it. Just to let him know that he was all right. After all, alebrijes were supposed to be messengers as well as spirit guides. May as well put _that_ to use.

Slowly, keeping a finger on his lips in case the alebrijes had the bad idea to start yapping and get everyone’s attention, Ezequiel opened the front door. A tilt of his head was all it took: three alebrijes ran out in the dimming light of dusk, already looking for a familiar scent.

Diablo paused, and looked up at him, tilting his head on one side; then, when Ezequiel gestured for him to go, he took off after the others - carrying with him a rolled-up piece of paper, tied to his neck with a shoestring.

* * *

Aside from one memorable night in Oaxaca - there had been a bit of a brawl in a cantina, and he and Héctor just hadn’t been quick enough to get away before he police got there - Ernesto had never been in a prison cell before.

Back on Oaxaca, it hadn’t been too bad; Héctor had been there to laugh it off with him, and mock him on how lucky he’d been that the police had burst in before a very angry guy with a broken bottle could do something drastic to his ‘pretty, pretty face’. They’d been brought into the cell snickering like idiots, and they had walked out still snickering the next morning. One more funny story to tell once they returned home, rich and famous.

But neither had ever returned home alive, only one of them had gone on to become rich and famous, and now - as he left the cell he had spent the previous week in before word came that all paperwork had been processed and he was to be released - Ernesto was alone and silent.

He’d been lucky, he supposed: the agents had put him in a van after he’d been handed over to them, and taken him straight to the police station. He’d had to face no crowd nor jeers, not coming in nor getting out. It seemed his capture and release had been kept under wraps, and it was a relief. It would become known eventually, but by the he’d be hiding away. Of course, not everyone was happy about it.

“If it were up to me, you’d have stayed to rot in there until your Final Death,” one of the guards had muttered, watching him leave. But it was never up to him, and Héctor had kept his word to drop all charges. There would be no trial, no nothing. His possession had already been taken to repay the Riveras for the theft of Héctor’s songs and the resulting loss of revenue - of course, he was already aware of that - but no further action would be taken against him.

That hardly made a difference, of course, no matter what that insufferable sap may think. As he moved quickly towards Shantytown - because where else could he go? - with the hood up to hide his face, he knew he would still have to hide for the rest of his afterlife… but now he had a way to cut it drastically short, if anything.

Now that he was no longer wanted he could cross over the bridge in a year’s time without risking arrest, and staying on the other side past dawn was all that it would take - whether or not he was remembered. Maybe it wouldn’t even hurt. And even if there was something _else_ past the Final Death, it couldn’t be worse than the hell he’d made for himself there. It would be a relief; it certainly was a relief right now, to think that the end was within sight.

He needed to keep going for just another year, only one more year. And if he tried his best to stay drunk as much as possible throughout it, maybe it would pass quickly eno--

“Yip! Yip!”

A familiar chorus of yaps caused Ernesto to recoil, snapping him from his morbid thoughts. He turned the way he’d come and sure enough there they were - his alebrijes, clambering down the wooden steps leading to Shantytown. He blinked, taken aback.

“I had told you to stay with him, not to run off,” he said, and he _tried_ to sound angry about it, he really did. Granted, the fact he was kneeling a moment later and letting them jump up to lick his face didn’t help his Angry Act very much. Neither did the laugh that left him a moment later, when he reached to pick them all up and hold them to his chest. A paw or two jabbed against his damaged ribs, and he found he didn’t even mind the sting.

He opened his mouth to say something - likely a string of mushy nonsense and praise, to hell with the Angry Act - but paused when his gaze fell on Diablo. Tied to his neck, there was a rolled-up piece of paper. He knew, right away, who it was from.

_You didn’t run off at all, did you? Of course not. Spirit guides, but also messengers. I see what you did there, niño._

Ernesto pulled the piece of paper free and unrolled it, holding it up so that the dogs couldn’t try to nip it, and found himself looking at what was without a doubt the handwriting of a child. It wasn’t a long message, but Ernesto went over it several times in the dimming light, and paused on the last few words most of all.

_Write back. Send Diablo. The others will stay with you._

Slowly, Ernesto de la Cruz stood, still staring at the letter. His gaze fell on the signature - _Ezequiel_ \- and he brushed a thumb over it. It was a quick scribble, a contrast to the neat handwriting in the rest of the letter, but there was a loop on the _E_ that reminded Ernesto of what his autographs used to look like, back when he signed thousands at a time until his wrist hurt.

No one had asked his autograph in years, but now someone was asking for a letter,  and he supposed that was as close as it would ever get. There had been a time when he’d received thousands of letters, too many to even begin replying to any, but that was gone, too. Now there was only one letter… and plenty of time to reply, if so he chose.

_Write back._

Well, may as well. He had no other commitments until the following year, after all.

He just needed to find pen and paper.

* * *

After getting a blessing for Socorro out of him, Héctor had thought he would never again find himself needing something from Ernesto. Apparently, he had been wrong. Ezequiel was well, settling in just great, but now it turned out that to make things entirely official, and legal, they needed his _signature._

“He is the boy’s next of kin,” the clerk had explained, almost apologetically. “It’s the rule - for you to have legal custody of the minor he needs to forfeit it first, or this goes to court.”

“This is ridiculous. He’s a murderer, and tried to kill a living child,” Imelda had pointed out, her voice sharp, and the clerk had instinctively pulled the computer closer to himself to keep it safe. “And last time we saw him, he reeked of alcohol from a mile away. Are you telling me anybody would be insane enough to consider _him_ fit to look after a child?”

“Well… no, if he were convicted, but the thing is that all charges were dropped,” the clerk had said, and Héctor had barely held back a sudden urge to groan and slam his skull down on the desk. Why _was_ it that every time he tried to do the right thing it just turned around to bit him in the tailbone?

“All right,” he’d muttered, reaching up to rub his forehead instead. “Right, right, right. Is there a form or something he needs to sign to forfeit all rights to custody?”

“Oh, yes. Here it is.”

“And if I get him to sign it, that’s it, right?”

“Pretty much. A signature here, one here, another one here, and it’s done,” the clerk had explained, pointing at several blank lines across a few papers written densely in strict bureaucrat-ese. “If he doesn’t, it will need to go to court. We’d have already taken care of it ourselves, we have no idea where he is. No fixed address or anything.”

Héctor had taken the form, stared at it for a moment, and then exchanged a glance with Imelda. He knew that they were both thinking the same thing: there was one place, and one place only, that came to their mind when asking themselves where he may have gone back to hide from sight.

“We might know where to find him,” Imelda had finally said slowly, then, “I suspect that if I have to see him again, he may find himself unable to sign anything. I’d rather not break another shoe on him, either. You go and get him to sign that, I don’t care how. But Pepita will come with you.”

It had been a fair compromise, and Héctor had gone to Shantytown with Pepita - although he instructed her to stay at the outskirts, within earshot should he call out but far enough not to be too threatening. He wasn’t there to scare the crap out of Ernesto, after all, tempting as it may be. He needed a signature - three, really - and that was all he would focus on.

Much like last time he’d been there, seven years earlier, finding him was easy: he was the only person there. Héctor spotted him from a distance, leaning on a fence someone had built over a section of the pier, staring down at the water with a bottle in his hand. He was wearing a dark coat, a hat and what looked a lot like an old scarf, likely to avoid being recognized... but the three Chihuahua alebrijes playing and tumbling together only a few feet from him were a dead giveaway.

So they had returned to him, as Cheque had guessed when they’d wondered why only one of them had stayed in the house with them. As he stepped closer, they spotted him and froze. They didn’t snarl, but they were clearly on alert, and one of them gave a sudden, warning bark that caused Ernesto to turn. He blinked at him, alarm turning into confusion and then into a wary look.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice cautious. His eyes scanned their surroundings, and Héctor was suddenly very glad he had opted to leave Pepita out of sight.

“I need an autograph,” he replied, trying to make light of the situation. That gained him an unimpressed look, but at least it did seem to reassure Ernesto that he wasn’t there to make a xylophone out of his bones. Speaking of which… “How are you ribs?”

“Could be worse,” Ernesto said, his tone still slightly guarded, but he did take a swig from the bottle before turning back to the canal, and Héctor decided to take it as permission to get closer. He went to lean on the fence as well, a few feet away from him. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Héctor glanced back at the alebrijes, looking for a neutral subject.

“How can you tell them apart? They’re identical,” he muttered, gaining himself a look that was nothing short of offended.

“No, they’re not!”

“Sure, if you say so.”

“They are _completely_ different! If you look at Clara's markings compared to--”

“All right, all right! Sorry!” Héctor replied, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. Ernesto turned away with a scoff, and there were a few moments of silence before Héctor dared speak again. “Ezequiel is doing very well,” he finally said. “We started to show him the ropes in the workshop, and he seems to like it. He has a thing for chemistry, which _might_ be worrying news, but it can’t get worse than my brothers in law’s experimenting. Did you know he’s got some really good sleights of hand to show? He wanted to be a magician when he grew up. Well, he can still a be a magician, even if he won’t grow up. Óscar and Felipe almost went crazy trying to figure out the one with the string and the coin.”

Ernesto shrugged, taking another swig from the bottle - it was strong stuff, by the smell of it - before he spoke. “When?”

“Last week. In the end they figured--”

“Allow me to make myself clearer. _When_ did I ask?”

That caused Héctor to frown with a pang of annoyance. “Oh, so sorry for thinking you might like to know. Being family and all.”

“I am no one’s family,” Ernesto said flatly.

 _The world will be our family._ The distant memory of what his childhood friend used to say - often after a rough day in his household, with a stubborn look that challenged anyone else to say otherwise - made it back to Héctor’s mind for a moment, and the annoyance turned into a sort of sadness he couldn’t quite place.

_The World Es Mi Familia. It used to be one of your favorites. I had written it for you._

Forcing himself to ignore the pang of nostalgia, Héctor shrugged. “Well, legally speaking, you are. Did you think taking a kid in would be anything short of a bureaucratic nightmare? Think again,” he added, and that got a sound out of Ernesto that resembled a chuckle.

“Heh. True enough,” he muttered, and held out the bottle. “Want a dri-- ow!” he let out a yelp when Héctor acted out without thinking, slapping the bottle out of his hand like he’d been handed a grenade. The bottle fell on the ground and then rolled into the water; Ernesto watched it sink before giving him an unimpressed look. “... Really now?”

Héctor blinked at him, suddenly feeling rather stupid. He lowered his hand slowly, and reached to rub his arm. “Uh. Sorry. It’s that last time you offered me a drink. Well. You know.”

Ernesto blinked back, then his gaze flickered to the spot where the bottle had sunk and, unless Héctor’s eyes were playing tricks on him, he actually had the good grace to look somewhat awkward. He turned away, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“Right. That,” he muttered.

“Yeah. That,” Héctor repeated. There were a few moments of silence, both of them staring at the water, before Héctor heard himself speaking. “... Were you ever sorry at all?” he asked, and he only realized how much he needed to know it as the words left his mouth. He glanced at Ernesto, half-expecting a scoff, but there was no such thing. Ernesto was resting his elbows on the fence, staring down at the water, and his shoulder rose and fell in a silent sigh.

“I sure am sorry _now,_ since it got me in this dump, but I’m guessing that's not what you mean,” he muttered, then, “Before, I was... sorry it had to come to it. I never _wanted_ to do it.”

Oh no, not that again. “It didn’t _have_ to come to--”

“I am aware,” Ernesto cut him off, his voice still flat. Under Héctor’s silent gaze, he reached to rub his forehead as though to try getting rid of a headache. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

“You don’t know.”

“It’s the only honest answer I can give you at this point. Take it or leave it.”

And Héctor did take it, because it was better than a ‘no’ and certainly more sincere than a ‘yes’ would have been. He nodded. “I understand,” he said.

“Lucky you,” was the dry reply. “Is that all you were here to ask?”

 _I wish,_ Héctor thought. “No,” he replied, and took the papers out of his pocket. He unfolded them, and handed them to Ernesto. “I mentioned the bureaucracy issue, right? And needing an autograph? Well, you need to sort of… sign off your rights to Cheque’s custody.”

That caused Ernesto to turn back to him, blinking. “Are they serious?”

“Well, we _did_ drop the charges. If you don’t sign, it will have to go to court and--”

“I was filmed throwing a living child to his death.”

“Believe me, I know. I was there. Still, bureaucracy,” Héctor repeated with a shrug, holding out the papers. Ernesto took them, and began reading. It didn’t take long for him to pause.

“... Rosita? Who's that?”

“My son in law's sister. We’ll all look after him, but we needed to pick one of us as the legal guardian. No one was going to fight Rosita over it and, well, Cheque likes her a lot. She dotes on that kid,” he added, but Ernesto was no longer listening.

“Legal guardianship,” he read on. “Not adoption. Not good enough for your precious family?”

Héctor blinked. “Wha-- no! None of us thinks that. We meant to adopt him, but it’s… complicated, especially with still living relatives that _will_ die at some point. Plus, he was adamant on keeping his surname. So that his mother can find him once she dies, if she looks for him,” he added, and he was unable to keep some sadness out of his voice. The hopeful look on Ezequiel’s face when he’d brought that up had been almost painful to see; his Coco’s understanding one had been worse.

Ernesto gave him an odd glance. “What do you mean, _if_ she looks for him? Why wouldn't--”

“Cheque hasn’t seen her since he was three. No idea if she even knows of his death.”

“Ah,” Ernesto muttered, and looked down at the papers again, reading on. His fingers traced the blank lines, and Héctor had just a moment to fear he wouldn't sign them after all before he sighed and held out his hand. “Got a pen? I don’t have one on me. Haven’t signed autographs in a while.”

“Huh? Oh. Sí, just a moment… where did I put it, where… wait, wait, wait… ah-ha! Found it!”

Ernesto rolled his eyes, but took the pen without commenting and quickly signed all the blank lines before handing the papers back to Héctor. “Here. Three autographs at the price of one,” he scoffed.

“Thanks. Uh… can I have the pen back?”

“What pen?” Ernesto said flatly, pocketing it.

“The one you just put in your pocket.”

“I did no such thing.”

Héctor opened his mouth to protest, then he thought better of it and just shrugged. “Well, whatever. I have better ones at home,” he informed him, folding the papers. He paused, not quite knowing what to do or say, and Ernesto entirely ignored his presence: he just rested his folded arms on the wooden fence and resumed looking down at the canal, saying nothing.

Well, he supposed that meant the conversation was over. He opened his mouth to say he should be on his way, but he never got to speak. A sudden chorus of barks and yaps caused him to wince and turn just on time to see a tiny Chihuahua alebrije running up to join the three that had been playing nearby, rolling and tumbling with them for a few moments before running up to Ernesto. There was something familiar about it, about that red collar it wore.

“Hey, isn't that the one Cheque keeps?” he asked, blinking, when the tiny alebrije ran to Ernesto and stood on its hind legs to greet him. “Why-- wait. What’s that around his neck?”

“Nothing,” Ernesto said quickly, snatching the rolled-up piece of paper from Diablo’s collar.

“Ernesto…”

“Nothing of your concer--"

“If Cheque is involved, it _is_ my concern. It’s sort of a thing when it comes to family. Not that I’d expect _you_ to understand,” Héctor cut him off, vehemently enough to make him fall silent for a few moments. His grip on the rolled-up sheet of paper tightened.

“He writes, sometimes. It was his idea,” he finally admitted. Thinking back of how often Diablo went missing from the household to roam, Héctor could easily guess it happened more often than just ‘sometimes’. And none of them had realized what was going on; the boy could be so sneaky it was almost hilarious.

“Heh. He’s a smart kid. And I assume you write back?”

Ernesto looked away, still holding the letter tight in his fist. It was as though he thought Héctor might try to take it from him any moment.  “... From time to time.”

Always, then. “We never suspected a thing.”

“You were not supposed to,” Ernesto said sourly.

Héctor remembered sitting down after a tiring performance to write to Coco before he fell asleep, usually with Ernesto already snoring away at the far end of the room. He’d poured his heart in those letters, not knowing just how much or for how long his daughter would treasure them, but hoping they would make her feel his love despite the distance between them. He _highly_ doubted Ernesto’s own letters were quite like the ones he had written for Coco, of course, but if Cheque kept writing back they had to be important to him… and, if the look on Ernesto’s face was anything to go by, for Ernesto as well; maybe he needed that exchange more than his great-great-grandson did. Unlike him, he was alone.

It was a _link,_ and one Héctor couldn’t in all conscience bring himself to break: he knew too much of broken bonds and the pains it took to mend them. Plus, he suspected that trying to do that would only make Cheque more likely to run off on them, and they’d rather avoid that.

“Us knowing will change nothing. We won’t keep Ezequiel from writing to you,” Héctor finally said. He would find a way to tell Imelda without triggering immediate retaliation against Ernesto - he would _never_ hide a thing from her again, no matter how harmless - and they would sit with the boy, explain him he didn’t need to hide anything from them, either. He could rely on them, without fear of reprisal. The sooner he’d fully understand it, the better.

And after all, there was nothing inherently wrong about them staying in touch. If Ernesto had wanted to use the boy against them again… well, he could have simply refused to signs those papers, and hadn’t. Unaware of his thoughts, Ernesto was giving him a doubtful look.

“Am I supposed to believe you?”

“My word is all I can give. Take it or leave it,” Héctor replied, and put the papers in his pocket. His fingers touched something else he had stuck in there, and that he’d entirely forgotten about: an envelope stuffed full of money, coming mostly from some ninety years of missed royalties on his songs. It was a lot of money, much more than their family knew what to do with, especially with their shoe making business doing so well.

Héctor had given most of it for the people if Shantytown, along with de la Cruz’s mansion, but it still kept coming. He’d brought a good chunk of cash with him, just in case… well, in case Ernesto needed some convincing to sign those papers. It’d have felt an awful lot like he’d _bought_ the child, even with the best intentions, so he was relieved it had not come to it.

Still, there was that money. And he didn’t want it. “Here. Take this.”

Ernesto blinked, staring down at the envelope Héctor had pushed in his hand. He opened it, and the confused look turned into one that was nothing short of stunned. “What is this?”

“Money, last time I looked. Unless Cheque did one of his tricks and turned it into feathers or something. It’s revenue from my-- from your movies. I don’t need it or want it.”

The stunned look turned into a frown. “It was to bribe me if I’d refused to sign, wasn’t it?”

Héctor saw now point in denying that. “An incentive,” he said, and Ernesto had the galls to look _offended_ next, which got on his nerves a lot more than he’d expected.

“So you thought I would _sell_ you the kid--”

“Why not? You took _my_ life for much less.”

That made Ernesto pause, but just for a moment. “I need nothing from you,” he said, and Héctor’s left eye twitched a little. Of all things he could have said, _that_ had to be it? Really?

“I wish you'd come to that conclusion a bit earlier. Say, about a century ago,” he retorted, and it did get him to shut up, recoiling slightly. Good, Héctor thought, and turned to walk away. “If you don't want that money, throw it into the canal. I don’t need it. Good luck.”

Had he turned back he would have seen Ernesto lifting a hand and taking a step before he paused, scowled, and lowered his arm. But he didn’t turn, and only heard him calling out.

“You owe me bottle,” he snapped, and Héctor scoffed without breaking his stride.

“With or without poison?” he asked aloud, refusing to turn. There was no reply, and he didn’t pause, didn’t even wonder if Ernesto had heard him at all. He was done there.

They were done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Narrator voice] They were not done.


	14. The Secret Ofrenda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you _probably_ guessed, this chapter has some heavy suicidal thoughts, as well as the mention of an actual suicide.  
>  I do apologize.

**Día de los Muertos**

“All done!”

Socorro took a step back from the ofrenda to admire her handiwork. All right, so it was pretty small and nowhere as decorated as the one downstairs, with only one picture she’d found on an old vinyl cover, a few flowers and a couple of candles on it… but then again that was the most she could get done on her own, in the attic, and without her family noticing anything.

There would be _questions_ if they found out she’d made an ofrenda for the guy who had stolen her great-great-grandpa’s songs and ‘probably’ killed him, and they weren’t ones she would be able to answer without having to tell a very long story they likely wouldn’t believe. So, that would have to do. Socorro put some pan de muerto on it as an offering, and snuck back downstairs and into the courtyard.

She was supposed to help Benny and Manny make a path of marigold petals leading to their courtyard for their family to follow - which was a bit silly, did they really think they would just forget where they used to live? - but Miguel had offered to do it in her place. She went past the path, careful not to step on it and ruin it, and went to their family’s ofrenda room.

Abuelita was there, placing the last of the offerings before each photo. Most of the things they had made for them had already been placed on their graves earlier that day - there was a nice pair of shoes that Abuelita had helped her make for Cheque, and an ocarina she hoped he would like to play, plus a bunch of black markers in case he needed new ones - but Abuelita always placed something more on the ofrenda, too. Usually food.

“Oh, Coquito! I was wondering where you went,” Abuelita said, and reached to put an arm around her shoulders. Socorro clung to her side, resting her cheek against her apron and looking at the pictures. Her gaze paused on Cheque’s, and the writing on the whiteboard he was showing. IF LOST RETURN TO SOCORRO, it read. But he would never be lost again, because that photo would always lead him home.

It was her favorite, but no longer the _only_ picture she had of him. Cheque’s fosterers had been really nice: they had kept a lot of his photos, but had also given her a few of the two of them together… and had let her make a copy of one that must have been taken a long time ago, before he was left in foster care.

Cheque was only a baby in it, maybe one year old, looking at the camera with wide eyes and a hand stuck in his mouth. He was in the arms of a woman with shiny black hair just like his, tied in a loose ponytail. She didn’t look as young as she must have been - she looked _tired,_ and too thin; someone who’d been beautiful in better times - but she was smiling at Cheque, and despite the ruined teeth it was a smile so sweet it could melt butter… just like his.

She must have loved him very, very much. Socorro wondered where she was now, and if she even knew that Cheque was dead. That photo was the only thing she had left him, she’d been told, so now she had placed the copy inside an envelope, along with a picture of them together and her letter - the _coded_ letter, like those they exchanged in class when they wanted to make sure no one would understand - to Cheque. Miguel had told her that the dead could take things from the Land of the Living by making some sort of spirit copy, whatever _that_ meant, and she was sure Cheque would love to have that picture back.

“So, what did you write him?” Abuelita asked as Socorro stepped closer to the ofrenda and stood on her toes to place the envelope on it, right in front of Cheque’s picture. She turned to look at her over her shoulder and gave what she hoped was a perfectly innocent-looking smile. She wasn’t as good as Cheque was, but she could try.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, “it’s a secret.”

* * *

“... And that’s the fourth and fifth crates, Anita. It looks like it’s all good.”

“Perfect. Help Fabricio take them out.”

“They’re heavy!”

“Will help you and Pedro build some muscle. Sort of. Now move.”

“Ugh, fine. Hey, de la Cruz, are you going to help us out or--”

“No. I’ve got to talk to him. Get to work, Bartolo.”

There was some grumbling and a sullen glare, but Anita’s men did exactly as they’d been told and began taking the crates out of Ernesto’s small apartment. Each of them was full of fireworks; none of them licensed, of course, but that wasn’t a detail Anita cared much about, and Ernesto cared even less. It was a way to make some money with the only skill he’d ever had aside from acting, singing, or playing the guitar, so he’d taken the chance.

The money Héctor had handed him had been enough to buy a decent place with decent furniture - sleeping in a proper bed had been nothing short of bliss - but there were still bills to pay. Ernesto had honestly no idea how Anita had known that he’d learned how to make fireworks, more than one lifetime ago; he’d wondered from time to time if Héctor had told her, but he had never asked if it was the case. He’d rather not know.

Either way, it had ended up working for both of them: after closing down the fighting pit for being ‘too much of a hassle’, in her own words, she’d focused more on fakes and unlicensed fireworks as a source of revenue. It was a job he could get done without ever having to go outside; all he needed was delivered at his door. He hardly ventured outside, never without a hat and a scarf to disguise himself and, so far, he’d never been recognized.

Anita and her men probably made thrice the amount of money they gave him by selling them on, but trying to sell the unlicensed fireworks himself would leave him too exposed, and he’d rather keep hidden as much as possible. No one would ever need to know who made those fireworks as long as it was someone else to sell them.

Plus, it wasn’t something he’d planned to keep going indefinitely: that batch might just be the very last they got out of him.

“So, what are your plans for tonight, Bellboy? I’m guessing it doesn’t involve a concert.”

Ernesto snorted, choosing to ignore both jabs. “I’ll cross over,” he said, reaching up to rub his forehead. There was a headache building up and he wanted a drink more than anything, but this time - much like when handling explosives - he needed to be stone sober. There would be a decision to take by dawn, and not the kind one can take while dunk.

Leaning against a wall with her arms crossed, Anita let out a chuckle. “Heh. Do you think there are still ofrendas out there for you? Might be, come to think of it. The world is full of weirdos like that.”

“There will be at least one. Or so I was told,” Ernesto said dryly, glancing at the chair his hat and scarf were on. He would have to reveal his face at the scanners, of course, but he’d hide it for as long as he could. Last thing he needed was getting into confrontations on the way. “I suppose I’ll find out if that’s true tonight. I’m no longer wanted, so I won’t be arrested on sight. Nothing keeps me from crossing now.”

“And will you also cross back, or are you thinking of watching your last sunrise in the Land of the Living before you turn to dust?”

Her words caused Ernesto to pause, annoyance turning into surprise. He glanced at her, taken aback. “What makes you think I would do that?” he asked slowly.

Anita shrugged. “The look on your face. I have seen it before,” she said, and gave a sharp smile. “Did I ever tell you how I died?”

Ernesto turned to fully face her, feeling as though he was moving underwater. “A bullet to the head, yes.”

“Did I tell you who pulled the trigger?”

“I suspect you’ll tell me now.”

“I did,” Anita said. Part of him had expected the answer, and he found he didn’t know what to say. He stared at her for a few more moments, watched her sharp smile fade in something different, something _blank._ “It was soon after the end of the civil war.”

“La Revolución?”

“Hah, I wish! I’m older than that. It was after la Guerra de Reforma. 1860. Never fought a war, did you?”

“No. I had an unpleasant brush or two with the Revolution, you might say. Nothing more.”

“Good for you. You probably wouldn’t have lasted, and even if you had, you can kill only so many people before it stops making you feel anything. You kill the enemy, then you kill your wounded comrade to make him stop screaming, and _then_ you kill a civilian who looked at you wrong. Until the war ends and you realize you do not belong to the life you had before,” she added, and shrugged. “That look on your face right now? I know it. I got up one morning and saw it in the mirror. I never went to sleep without a loaded gun within reach - yes, this one. I had the luxury of a quick death. But then I woke up here, dead and yet not gone, and I found I was glad it wasn’t over after all. What you’re thinking of is _final,_ Bellboy.”

Ernesto scoffed. “Stop calling me that. And you don’t know how final it truly is. No one does. All that I care is that it gets me away from here,” he added, realizing only after he’d spoken that he’d just admitted that she was right, that he was considering not crossing back.

Anita stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough. I had no interest in discussing the unknown when I was alive and I’m not interested now either. So I’ll just ask again, and only once: do I have to get looking for someone else to make us fireworks?”

Ernesto found himself drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he finally heard himself saying. It was odd, saying as much aloud. It made his intent seem so much more real than just a half-baked thought.

 _What you’re thinking of is_ final, _mi amigo._

_I hope it is, oh God, I want to be gone and to stay gone, but no one knows. What if it’s worse? What if I find the fire and brimstone everyone always babbled about?_

“I’ll figure it out once I’m on the other side, I suppose,” he added in the end, and gave a sarcastic smile. “Will you weep if I don’t return?”

“Hah! Hardly. You’re a good asset, but not _that_ good. We can replace you. But the guys and I will have a toast to you, if that counts,” Anita replied, and walked to the door. She glanced back over her shoulder. “We’ll wait until midday before we have that drink. If you’re still around by then, drop by. We don’t mind sharing, sometimes. As long as you’re not the one to pour it,” she added, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a loud _clack._

Ernesto stared at it for a few moments, speechless, before he turned away. His gaze fell on a small table where he’d left Cheque’s latest letter; he hadn’t seen him since the previous year, but the boy had been writing him at least once a week since. A couple of days earlier he’d written to remind him that there would be an ofrenda for him at the Riveras’, Socorro had promised and she kept her promises, was he going to cross over to Santa Cecilia, too?

 _I’ll think about it,_ he’d replied. It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t a lie at all. He _had_ thought about it, and he’d decided to go, if anything to take a look at his grave.

What he was still mulling over, however, was whether or not he would ever head back.

* * *

Socorro had grown up.

It was nothing Ezequiel hadn’t expected but as she looked at her, dancing at the sound of Miguel’s guitar and Rosa’s violin, it felt a bit like a slap; not a very strong one, but a slap all the same. When he’d died she was half a head taller than him, joking that she’d be _so_ _annoyed_ if Abuelita turned out to be right about that growth spurt thing and he got taller than her. Now she stood a full head above him, and Ezequiel would never catch up.

It wasn’t often that he thought about being dead; it was just his new normal. But there had been moments when he’d thought it wasn’t fair, when he’d think back of his nine years of life – eight years and eleven months, really – and think, _is this it? Is it all I get?_

Everyone had told him that it was normal, especially for someone who died young, but now he felt a pang of shame for thinking like that. He should be happy to be there, to see Socorro again even though she couldn’t see him, to see her doing so well and having so much fun. He shouldn’t be getting frustrated for something so far beyond his control. Still...

“Feels a bit odd, huh? Seeing them getting older than you,” Héctor spoke, crouching down to put a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to have read his mind, and it occurred to Ezequiel that he’d mentioned, on their way there, that Miguel was now the same age he’d been when he died. Next year, he would be older.

Ezequiel nodded, and looked up at him. He was looking at Miguel, sure enough, but then he let his gaze wander on the entire family, dead and alive, and smiled. “It wasn’t fair, chamaco. I’m not going to lie. You shouldn’t be among us,” he admitted. “But you can sit and be bitter all you want, and it wouldn’t change a thing. Or you can enjoy your afterlife until they join us and you catch up. And maybe mock them a bit. Imagine, Socorro having to do tax returns! You didn’t dodge the van but oh, did you dodge a bullet,” Héctor added, winking, and Ezequiel couldn’t hold back a snicker.

Héctor grinned out at him, and tilted his head towards Miguel. “Hey, listen. A soul without a voice? I think he wrote this one is for you.”

Taken aback, Ezequiel followed his gaze and realized that he was right, that Miguel was singing another song that he’d never heard before.

_“El alma sin voz no se queda en silencio, sólo habla sin emitir sonido…”_

As Ezequiel listened with wide eyes, Héctor smiled. “I’ll have a good listen, chamaco. So that I can play it for you whenever you want,” he said, and ruffled his hair. That never failed to make Ezequiel huff in protest, but this time he found he didn’t even mind.

For a time he just listened to the music, watched Socorro dance to it and sing along, and noticed how from time to time her eyes would wander around – like she was looking for something. Had her gaze just paused on him just now, even for only a moment? Had he imagined it? He wondered how odd it had to feel, knowing that he was there but being unable to see him.

When the song ended, Miguel crouched to tell Socorro something before he pulled her in a tight hug, and then Elena was joining in, too. He’d liked her, too, like the grandmother he never got to have, and suddenly Ezequiel wished more than anything that he could touch them, and join that hug. He wished it so much that it almost hurt… and it had to show, because only a moment later someone _was_ hugging him.

“Oh, chico, don’t make that sad face. They know you’re here,” Rosita said. She hugged him a lot, and Ezequiel found he liked that, even when they were so tight he could almost hear his ribs creaking. “Now, come take a look at the ofrenda! Óscar and Felipe are just done arguing over which picture is whose, like _every_ year, and there is something for you.”

He followed her after giving one last glance in the courtyard – where Socorro was dragging two of her cousins away from the food to dance with her stepping right through Victoria – and he found himself looking for the first time at the photo Socorro had put up for him. He was smiling at the camera, months away from his death, holding up the whiteboard.

IF LOST, RETURN TO SOCORRO.

He remembered that picture really well, because they had taken one each, with Socorro holding the whiteboard reading I AM SOCORRO. It was a stupid joke, but his fosterers had thought it was hilarious. He’d liked them; he hoped they were all right.

Beneath the picture, aside from from the pan de muerto and a few tamales – from Elena, no doubt – there was an envelope. He took it, watching with some fascination as it split in two, leaving one in his hand and one on the ofrenda, and opened it. Inside there was a letter, which he had expected, and two photos, which he had… not. Or, at least, he had imagined Socorro might slip in a photo of them together. It was the _other_ one he had not expected to ever see again.

“Is that your mamá?”

Ezequiel looked up to see Coco smiling down and him before glancing at the picture again. In it, he was little more than a baby and his mother looked almost exactly like he remembered her. He could tell now that _the stuff_ had left a mark on her face, but he still thought she was beautiful. He nodded, knowing that even if he weren’t mute, he wouldn’t be able to speak at the moment.

“Wherever she is, I am sure she misses you a lot,” Coco said, and put a hand on his head in a gentle touch. “I’m sure she loves you very, very much.”

Ezequiel sniffled, and nodded. _I know,_ he wanted to write, but he didn’t want to let go of the photo just yet, so he didn’t. As Coco walked away to give him a few moments on his own, taking Rosita with her with an excuse, Ezequiel found himself alone in the ofrenda room. He stared down at his mother, stroking her features with a thumb, before he carefully slipped both photos in his pocket and turned his attention to Socorro’s letter.

It was a long letter, of several pages: she spoke of how she’d been doing in the past year, how well Miguel was doing - “He wrote a song for you, it was even on the radio! Listen carefully today!” - and about Abuelita starting to teach her how to make shoes. Their school now had a plaque with his name on it, and she’d been hanging out with Romina and Tomás a lot - _“They’re all right, but they’re not you”._

She was worried that Gabriel was starting to have a crush on her - _“I’d rather kiss a coyote”_ \- and also his fosterers were all right. They were going to have a baby of their own after years of trying, Socorro wrote, a boy they were going to call Ezequiel. They had given her those pictures and she thought he would like to have them, especially the one with his mamá.

Ezequiel smiled, and looked down when he heard a purring noise. An alley cat that was not an alley cat at all was in the ofrenda room, headbutting his leg. Ezequiel reached down to give Pepita a rub behind the ears, and then turned the sheet to read more – only to blink when he saw that the last page didn’t look like the others at all. It took him a moment to realize what it meant, but when he did, his smile turned into a grin.

To anyone else, it would have looked like a bunch of random letters: it was a code he and Socorro had come up with to pass each other messages in class, when clicking pens was not an option. Whatever was written on that page was for his eyes only, and Ezequiel made sure he was alone in the ofrenda room before he started reading…  but he didn’t get very far.

_Crash._

“Oh, this dog again! Does it ever go away?”

“Ruff!”

“Yip! Yip!”

“Ay, another! Where did _that_ come from? This place is turning into a dog pound, it really is!”

Ezequiel looked up to see Dante hurling through the courtyard, causing a table to almost topple before Socorro’s cousin Abel managed to steady it, and then crashing into Héctor and Imelda, putting an abrupt end to their dance. It was a pretty funny scene, but his attention was taken by Diablo, who looked like a normal Chihuahua with tan fur on that side of the bridge. He came running into the ofrenda room with a chicken wing in his mouth… and with Socorro in tow. She picked Diablo up before he could dart away, and held him close.

“Where is Cheque?” she whispered to the tiny dog. “Is he here?”

Diablo yapped through the chicken wing, and turned to look at him, wagging his tail. Socorro followed the dog’s gaze, and Ezequiel’s non-existent heart seemed to skip a beat when her eyes paused right on him. He could almost think that she could see him now.

“Read the letter. All of it,” she said, and grinned in his direction before she ran back outside, Diablo still in her arms. Ezequiel stared at her retreating back, then looked down at the letter. He went through the coded message as quickly as he would have if he were reading plain Spanish, and by the time he finished he was grinning again.

_Remember, at nine on the dot. Be there. I can’t wait to see you._

* * *

He had expected his mausoleum to be in a poor state. He had expected it to be barren save for a few scraggly flowers. He’d expected the insults scribbled on the marble, and had even predicted a few of them.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did.

All around him, and yet very far away, the cemetery was alight with candles and a blur of movement as the dead and the living walked through it and occasionally through each other, some to leave offerings and others to take them. He’d walked through them in silence, with his head lowered, the scarf up to almost his nose and the hat down to cover his features, and no one seemed to have recognized him. Now that he was finally in a dark spot, in the shadow of the mausoleum that held his body, Ernesto allowed himself to really look around.

Santa Cecilia’s cemetery was much bigger than it had been back when he’d been alive; as a boy he’d known it like the back of his hand, but now he’d almost gotten lost. Mariquita was probably buried there, and maybe so was the daughter he knew nothing of other than a name. Or maybe she was buried somewhere else entirely; not that he would know.

His parents were definitely there, but he had no idea in which part of the cemetery _._ He hadn’t been there when they’d died and been buried. He’d meant to, for his mother at least, but he’d been busy. There had been places to be, crowds to play for, movies to shoot; he had no _time_ to go back to bury a body that wouldn’t even know he was there.

Plus - and that was something he could hardly admit even to himself - the thought of going to Santa Cecilia had never failed to make him feel slightly sick, like he was looking down from a great height. It was the place he’d strained to escape from and, most of all, he had too many memories tied to it. Happy memories, even, but those would be the hardest ones to face, he suspected. The one who’d _made_ them happy was gone.

It wasn’t like he’d neglected his duties as a son. He’d sent money, plenty of it, so that they could live comfortably. He’d written home when his father had died, sent more money for both funerals when needed. He’d seen them again in the Land of the Dead, sure enough, after his own untimely death. Now they were forgotten - they’d both been forgettable people - but from the day they had known their memory was beginning to fade to their last moments in the Land of the Dead, they had lived in his mansion. Ernesto couldn’t _let_ them spend their last years in a shack, after all. What would people say if they knew Ernesto de la Cruz had let his own mother and father spend the remainder of their existence in a shack?

He hadn’t precisely spent much of that time with them; they were too reserved, too out of place in the parties he would throw, with the guests he would entertain. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of them, precisely, but… well, they all had known they were simply not what people would expect, so they’d kept to themselves. But they had been comfortable to the end, he had made sure of that. He’d done all that could be expected of him, right? Right?

_I wasn’t happy to see them go, but it was a relief in its on way. It is a relief now. What would they say if they knew?_

“Oh, look at Maria! All grown up!”

As an elderly deceased couple passed him by, far too close for Ernesto’s tastes, he pulled the scarf up his face and stepped further into the shadows, looking up at the mausoleum.

He’d rarely bothered to visit the living world, sending others in his stead to pick up the endless offerings, so he’d seen it few times in its full glory, but he remembered what the it had looked like when he’d been dead for only one year - _precisely_ one year, as he’d died on Día de los Muertos of all days. Ironic  how his downfall, and now his _second_ death, would be on that day as well.

He hadn’t quite adjusted to being dead yet, then, and seeing all that adoration in the Land of the Living as well as in the Land of the Dead had been of help. The world - his familia - still loved him. He remembered the offerings, the flowers, the candles all around it. Now there was nothing but dust, and black paint to mar the whiteness of the marble.

 _Forget you,_ the most prominent of the graffitti read, and Ernesto de la Cruz let out a laugh so bitter it seemed to scald his non-existent throat. Oh, if _only._ He’d spent nine years wishing more than anything that he could be allowed to fade into whatever oblivion was to be found beyond the Final Death, knowing that he wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time to come. Now he could make that wish come true by just sitting down and waiting for the sunrise. His last.

It wouldn’t be _spectacular,_ but very much welcome for sure. It was his chance to end it all and, ironically enough, he had Héctor to thank for it. Had he imagined, even for a moment, that it would come to this? That his decision to drop all charges against him, making him a free man at least on paper, would give Ernesto the chance to bring it all to a close?

As much as part of him wished to believe so - to think that Héctor’s insufferable generosity had been a façade, that putting a loaded gun in his hands had been his plan all along, his true revenge - he knew that wasn’t it. He knew that the mere idea hadn’t even touched him… and, most infuriating of all, he knew that Héctor would try to stop him if he had an inkling of what he was planning.

 _The man I killed, and the only who’d want to save me._ _Life is messed up but oh, ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbours, so is death._

Except that he wouldn’t be quite the only one who’d want to stop him, would he? Cheque would try, too, and that was why Ernesto had decided against telling him what he planned to do. He’d wanted to, wanted to share what he had in mind with at least _someone,_ and he’d even begun writing a couple of days earlier… but then what? The kid would run to Héctor and they would both try to stop him, that was what. He couldn’t allow that. Cheque would just see his letters go undelivered, perhaps wonder about it, and then move on with his afterlife.

They hadn’t even met in a year, after all. He’d forget about him soon enough.

_Forget you._

_Oh please, please do._

Ernesto’s hand went to a pocket of his coat, where in the end he’d stuck a bottle of tequila. After all, he’d told himself that he’d stay stone sober for as long as it took to take his decision… and that decision was taken. He may as well make himself comfortable for the hours of wait, make that constant headache go away at least. It might make it easier to face what was to come… whatever it would be.

Gaze fixed on his bust - it had splatters of what looked like red paint on it, and someone seemed to have taken a hammer to it, because part of the hat and a good chunk of the nose had been broken off - Ernesto took the bottle out, opened it, and took a generous swig. He was just gulping down that first mouthful when a familiar chorus of yapping reached him.

Well, it looked like their little tour of the town hadn’t lasted too long. Ernesto turned to see his alebrijes running up to him, except that now of course they did not look like alebrijes at all. They had taken the form they’d had in life, when they had been just dogs: a long-haired white one, one black, one silvery-gray... and one tan. Diablo.

The realization caused the smile that had tugged at the corners of his mouth to fade. If Diablo was nearby then so was Cheque, and he didn’t want the boy to see him, not like that, not _there._ He thought of hiding inside the mausoleum, but before he could take one step a voice rang out, a little girl’s voice that he’d only heard once before but would know anywhere.

“... Señor de la Cruz?”

Ernesto winced, the bottle falling from his hand and rolling somewhere in the dust, but he hardly noticed. He turned, thinking that he must have heard wrong, but he hadn’t.

Standing only a few feet from him, looking straight _at_ him, was Socorro Rivera.

* * *

Miguel was once again singing the song he’d written for Cheque - El Alma Sin Voz, he’d called it - when Socorro left the courtyard, saying that she wanted to visit Cheque’s grave again. And really, it was only half a lie. She would get there, after paying a visit to Mamá Coco’s grave and taking a little something to get herself cursed… only for a little while.

To say that Miguel had not agreed with her idea at all would be an understatement, but he’d come to see things her way event-- no, all right, he hadn’t. He just knew that there was nothing he could actually do to stop her, short of tying her up and locking her in a closet.

“I’d rather you _don’t_ do it, but if you must--”

“I’ll take something from the grave of a family member. I know. I don’t want to have to ask de la Cruz for a blessing again. Hey, do you think he’s going to show up here? With the secret ofrenda and all?”

“Unless he wants a boot’s heel through an eye socket, I doubt it. But it would really be best if you didn’t--”

“I want to _see_ him.”

In the end Miguel had given up, but he’d made her promise time and time again she would take only from a relative’s grave, and had said he’d come to look for her if she didn’t turn up again, in the flesh, by midnight. That gave her three hours to be with Cheque, and she had agreed. She wanted to see him, but she didn’t want to see Miguel scared like the previous year ever again; that was a fair compromise.

Getting herself cursed was far less scary now that she knew what was going on: one small gesture, glowing petals, and suddenly the cemetery was twice as crowded. Socorro smiled and ran through it towards Cheque’s tomb, avoiding the dead and running right through the living. It took less than a minute for her to get to it – and Cheque was there already, looking down at the shoes and the ocarina she and Abuelita had left for him earlier.

“CHEQUE!”

Her yell caught him by surprise, and so did her hug. He almost toppled backwards, but Socorro lifted him from the ground and dragged him into a half-twirl before putting him down. He felt lighter, because she had grown stronger, and he looked shorter, because she had grown taller – but she could recognize those eyes, that hair and those markings everywhere… as well and the grin showing on his face when he looked up at her, still trapped in her grip.

“I’ve missed you so much!” she exclaimed, and tightened the hug for a moment before letting go of him. “You look great! How have you been? What have you been doing? You’ve got to tell me everything and oh, I practiced reading sign language! I’m _a lot_ better now! Try me!”

He did, and she _was_ a lot better at understanding it. It was faster than writing, but even so they talked and talked and talked for what felt like a long time, because there was so much to say. Cheque was well, he had settled down with her family and he wasn’t very good with shoes yet, but that was okay because he got to do deliveries and he liked that a lot.

 _I know the Land of the Dead like the back of my hand now,_ he signed, and gave that cocky tilt of the head she remembered so well. _I’m faster with deliveries than anybody else!_

“Of course you are. You were the fastest in our school,” Socorro laughed, and she was about to add something else, but she trailed off when a chorus of yapping reached her ears. They both turned to see four tiny dogs playing and tumbling among the graves. Were those…?

A look at Cheque was enough to tell her that yes, they were. He had only kept one alebrijes, he’d told her, the one she had seen earlier. But if the other three were there, did that mean that de la Cruz was there, too?

“Maybe he came for the ofrenda,” Socorro said, then, “Have you seen him since last year?”

Cheque shook his head and stepped forward, but before he could get the alebrijes’ attention they began running off. Socorro and Cheque exchanged a glance, and she shrugged.

“May as well,” she said, and he smiled back before they began running after the tiny dogs across the cemetery, through the crowd, right up to Ernesto de la Cruz’s decaying mausoleum… and to a lone figure in a dark coat, almost hidden in the darkness. It was him that the dogs were heading to, and that in itself was a dead giveaway of who it had to be.

He didn’t look as scruffy as he had been the previous year, but then he turned to the chihuahuas and, despite the hat and scarf, Socorro recognized him right away. Seeing him up close, it was impossible not to. “… Señor de la Cruz?”

De la Cruz recoiled, dropping the bottle he’d had in his hand, and turned. He stared at her, clearly stunned. “You?” he muttered, then scowled, but he didn’t look angry, not really. He mostly looked scared. “What are you-- why-- how-- do you need _another_ blessing?”

“Huh? No. I mean, yes, but not from you.”

“Oh, good. Because if you do, I’d rather we get this over with before a giant jaguar is involved or--” he trailed off suddenly, his gaze finally moving beyond Socorro, and he fell silent as Cheque stepped by her side. He looked slightly taken aback, but not that much. He didn’t step any closer, but he reached for his whiteboard.

HI, he wrote.

“Er. Hi,” de la Cruz muttered, shifting a little, and looked around. “If _they’re_ nearby, I’d really rather be somewhere else just about now,” he added, and Cheque shook his head.

THEY’RE AT HOME, he wrote, then he took a look at the old mausoleum and frowned. WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?

That caused de la Cruz to let out a bitter chuckle. “Why, I’m taking a look at my legacy,” he replied, turning to glance up at his desolated mausoleum. It was in pretty bad shape, and the municipality had stopped even trying to clean the graffitti years ago. Socorro knew it looked worse in daylight, when all of the writings showing clearly, but she knew better than saying it.

“You know, it’s not _that_ bad,” she said instead. “Everything looks a little depressing when it’s dark. But in daylight, it’s actually a lot bett--”

A piece of stone that had probably been what remained of the bust’s nose chose that moment to fall on the ground with a dull thud. All three stared at it for a couple of moments before de la Cruz spoke, his voice flat. “Well. I do appreciate the attempt.”

“Uh. You’re welcome?” she mumbled, feeling more than a little awkward. Cheque moved forward before she could think of anything else to say, and reached to grab de la Cruz’s sleeve, causing him to recoil and look away from the debris. He was holding up the whiteboard with his other hand.

SOCORRO MADE AN OFRENDA FOR YOU, TOO. LIKE SHE PROMISED.

“It’s not very big,” Socorro said. To her own surprise, her voice sounded a little bit apologetic. “But there’s a picture and flowers, and candles and some pan de muerto. You’re welcome to it. I mean, it’s your offering.”

De la Cruz shook his head. “I’d rather not come within striking range of a Rivera,” he said, and really, Socorro wasn’t surprised. Miguel was right: Mamá Imelda probably would stick a heel in his eye socket if she saw his face anywhere near their family home. Cheque was unsurprised, too, but he was writing again the next moment.

I CAN TAKE THE OFFERING AND GIVE IT TO YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE. DIABLO CAN LEAD ME TO YOU. HE DID IT BEFORE.

De la Cruz’s expression stayed blank for a moment, then he smiled a little. It was not a happy smile by any stretch of imagination, but it was still better than no expression at all. “That would be nice, niño. Thank you.”

With a smile, Cheque gave his hand a squeeze before he looked from the mausoleum to the exit of the cemetery, his question obvious: _you’re not staying here all night, right?_

“I’m not going to be here for much longer,” de la Cruz said, very slowly, and crouched down, reaching to brush back Cheque’s hair. Had she been a bit older, Socorro would have recognized his expression for what it was - that of a man who knows he’s looking at someone for the very last time. But she did not, and neither did Cheque.

In the end, de la Cruz stood. “Now go back before someone comes looking for you. I'd like to avoid a broken skull,” he added, looking at Socorro. He didn’t scowl or anything; his gaze had the distant cast of someone whose mind is miles away. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my presence. I just... want some peace. Nothing more.”

Cheque nodded and then he was off, with Diablo and Socorro in tow. When they got to the entrance of the cemetery, however, Socorro paused for a moment to look back, towards the decaying mausoleum. In the dark, she could barely make out the shape of a man picking up something from the ground - it was a bottle, the one he’d dropped - and bringing it to his mouth, emptying it in one gulp before he discarded it and walked, silently, into his tomb.

It was sad and somewhat creepy, but in the end it was nothing she could do much about - and besides, she had little time to be with Cheque and her family from the Land of the Dead. It was all that she would get for another year, and she wanted to make every moment count. Socorro Rivera turned away from the cemetery and ran after her best friend, towards the light and warmth of her home.

* * *

One hour to dawn.

Last time that thought had crossed his mind, precisely a year earlier, he was sitting in a filthy alley in the Land of the Dead, thinking that it was all finally over. He’d been wrong then, but not _now_ for sure. One hour, and the sun would rise to turn him to dust; then it would _truly_ be over, with no Héctor Rivera coming to disturb him. A quiet and lonely end, a far cry from what his first death had been like... but as long as it was equally painless, it didn’t matter at all.

He’d even gotten to see fireworks one last time, from one of the windows, a few hours earlier. The noise made the constant throb in his skull even worse, but the spectacle had been worth the spikes of pain. At that point, all that was left for him to wish for before the Final Death claimed him was one last drink. A stiff one.

_We’ll wait until midday before we have that drink. If you’re still around by then, drop by._

He wouldn’t cross back, though, so no drink for him. Huddled on the floor of his tomb, Ernesto let his gaze wander from his portrait - that, at least, had not been vandalized - to the marble sarcophagus that held his remains. He’d never known what his body had looked like after being crushed by the bell, but he supposed it must have been a gruesome sight; at least now there would be no mess to clean up. Only dust and then, hopefully, oblivion.

And a boy who’d look for him to give him some pan de muerto, but would never find him.

The thought was sudden as it was chilling, cutting through his bleak thoughts like a shard of glass. Somehow, it was worse than the thought of letters going unanswered. Ernesto wrapped the coat more tightly around himself, and looked up.

The mount were the guitar used to be was empty, but it was no surprise. It had never been _his_ guitar; of course the Riveras had reclaimed it, like they’d reclaimed everything else. He wished he could go back to hating them for it, wrapped up in his comforting delusions, but--  
_my fault my fault it was all my fault_  
\--that was no longer an option. Some mark he’d left in the world, some legacy. They had his great-great-grandson too, now, and that was for the best. He would forget him, in time.

_Forget you._

_He will not._

No, of course he would not. He _knew_ that he wouldn’t. _Diablo can lead me to you again,_ he’d written, but he couldn’t, not... wherever he was going. How long would the boy keep looking for him before he figured out what had happened? Would he figure it out at all, or just assume he’d walked away - one more person to leave him behind? What would he think? Would he be saddened? Angry? Both? It didn’t matter either way, it didn't matter at all.

Except that it did. In the smoking ruin of his existence, it suddenly seemed the _only_ thing that mattered. He should have written to him, he should have tried to explain; he could have posted a letter right before crossing. But it was too late now, too late to do anything but sit and wait, and so much for seizing his moment. He wondered, faintly, how quickly he would fade. Would the first toll of the morning bell be the last thing he heard when dawn broke?

 _It should be,_ he thought. _I’ve got a theme going on here._

Inside the silent mausoleum, his echoing laughter sounded like it belonged into the padded cell of a madman. It almost covered the sound of barking as three tiny dogs began nosing and pawing at the closed entrance, whining with growing urgency and then howling. Almost.

Ernesto de la Cruz did hear them but, as much as he _ached_ to go to them, he forced himself not to turn. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the noise, burrowing his face in hands, the pain in his skull growing worse the louder they howled. He soon slumped on his side to curl up in the dust, clutching his head, shuddering with something that was not laughter anymore.

In the east, slowly, the sky began to brighten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah there's also a cliffhanger. I apologize for that too.


	15. The Tenth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A short epilogue", I whisper as I sail past 8,000 words.  
> Hey how do you guys maintain some control over your own writing, asking for a friend.

“You know you’re not supposed to do this kind of thing without telling us first, right? I should be giving you a lecture on not sneaking off right now.”

YOU ARE.

“All right, so maybe I am. And I did last night when Socorro showed up and almost gave us all a stroke, too. Ay, see what you did? You turned me into the guy who gives _lectures,_ muchacho!”

Héctor’s comment caused Ezequiel to snicker silently, but no apology was offered. He hadn’t looked especially guilty when Héctor had noticed him leaving the household, right when he was coming back to it after paying a quick visit to the nearly forgotten at their mansion to toast to the new dawn with all those who had lasted to see it.

The boy hadn’t really tried to hide where he was heading, either: the bag of pan de muerto from Socorro’s secret ofrenda was kind of a giveaway. And, besides, Socorro had told him who they had met in the cemetery, after making him promise they would leave him alone. The fact Cheque had to follow Diablo to get wherever Ernesto lived now had reassured Héctor that it was the first time he’d decided to go pay him a visit, at least, but it wasn’t like he could just let him go on his own. At the very least, he should be present. Just in case.

“How did he look to you?” Héctor asked as they kept following the tiny alebrije through streets, stairs and alleys. Cheque looked up at him, his expression suddenly serious, and shook his head.

Not so good, then. Héctor was not especially surprised, considering that the previous night marked nine years since his disastrous fall from grace. He honestly doubted that some pan de muerto could make it any better, but then again it was probably better than nothing at all. Maybe Cheque’s visit would be more welcomed than the offering, though.

Héctor was still mulling over that when Diablo suddenly barked and began walking faster, up some stairs and then left, before stopping in front of a building. It was nothing to write home about, but not too dilapidated, either. A good upgrade from a Shantytown shack, that was for sure. The alebrije walked up to a black door with what looked a lot like a cat flap, leading to a ground floor apartment, and disappeared inside. Héctor took a look at the window, but the curtains were drawn shut and he couldn’t see a thing. All right then, time to find out if anybody was home.

Cheque stood on his toes to reach for the doorbell, and they waited for a few moments after it rang. There was more yapping coming from inside, and suddenly the cat flap opened, letting all four alebrijes spill out, tails wagging. Cheque reached to scratch each one behind the ears, careful to keep the pan de muerto out of their reach, and stood upright again to look at the door with a frown. He went to ring the doorbell again, with the same result – no reply.

“Maybe he’s out?” Héctor said, but Cheque shook his head, and placed the bag under one arm to write his reply on the whiteboard.

HE NEVER GOES ANYWHERE WITHOUT HIS ALEBRIJES. HE TOLD ME.

“Ah. Then maybe, uh… maybe he had a drink too many and didn’t hear us,” Héctor suggested, crouching down to look at the cat flap and entirely missing the suddenly anxious look on the boy’s face. The opening was large enough to let the chihuahuas through, but not a skull, so getting in through it was not an option. Still, he could make use of it. Héctor detached his left arm and reached through the cat flap with both arms, fingers looking for the doorknob. He found it, pulled it down… and nothing happened.

“Door’s locked. Looks like there’s no getting in without-- is that a lockpick?”

Cheque nodded without looking at him, fiddling with the lock. Héctor raised an eyebrow, or the ridge of bone that served as one, as he attached his arm back. “Do I want to know _why_ you have a lockpick?”

The boy looked up at him with an angelic smile. _Who, me?_

“Yes, _you._ Am I supposed to believe it’s for some magic trick you’re practicing, chamaco?”

Another nod.

“You’re not believable.”

Cheque gave a shrug that told him in no uncertain terms that he really didn’t care either way, and turned his attention back to the lock. A few more twists, and a clack told Héctor that the door was open.

“Well, I’m impressed. And disturbed,” he muttered, peering inside. Getting in would mean breaking and entering, he supposed, and Ernesto _might_ just have the galls to press charges for it, but oh well. They had come that far, may as well go all the way.

The apartment was on the small side, with furniture that had clearly been well-used, but not too shabby. They stepped in a living room that held a table, an old couch and an even older TV set… but no sign of Ernesto, not there nor in the bedroom, where the bed was unmade and empty. No sign on him in the small kitchen, either, which was cluttered and full of boxes of delivery food and instant meals. A room at the back was empty aside from a desk, a sink, crates, and what were clearly the leftover scraps of assembled fireworks. It looked like Anita had decided to give it a go, after all. Who else would he be making unlicensed fireworks for?

“Looks like he’s out,” Héctor finally muttered. “I say you leave the offerings on the table over there and maybe write a note or--” he began, only to pause when Cheque began writing quickly on the whiteboard and held it up, his eyes suddenly wide with something too close to fear for Héctor’s tastes.

WHAT IF HE DIDN’T CROSS BACK?

The thought was unexpected as it was chilling, because it made such a staggering amount of sense that Héctor could hardly believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. _The dead cannot die as long as they’re remembered_ was a well-known truth, but it wasn’t the _entire_ truth. There was a way, hardly ever talked about, for a departed soul to be turned to dust, remembered or not: failing to cross the bridge back by the time the sun rose after Día de los Muertos.

They had told Ezequiel as much as they stressed out the importance of staying close to them during the visit and never linger behind; everyone knew that crossing back before sunrise was vital… and so did Ernesto, who’d been wishing to be _gone_ for almost a decade. Ernesto, who’d been able to cross over for the first time since his downfall the previous night. Ernesto, who’d last been seen alone on the other side, standing before his defaced mausoleum. Ernesto, who now was nowhere to be found.

The sense of stunned realization had to show on Héctor’s face, because Cheque’s expression went from fearful to horrified. He took a step back, shaking his head in desperate denial, and Héctor moved without thinking. He knelt in front of the boy and put both hands on his shoulders.

“Hey, hey. It’s all right. He’s probably just out – don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “Look at me, chamaco. You wait here, all right? I’ll borrow Diablo and go looking for him,” he added. Ezequiel looked back at him with wide eyes, and Héctor forced himself to smile. “It will be fine. He’s fine. I’ll find him and give him an earful for getting you so worried,” he added. He sincerely hoped he sounded more confident than he felt, because he wasn’t sure he’d find him.

He wasn’t sure at all.

* * *

After Héctor left, the silence was unbearable.

That wasn’t something Ezequiel would usually think, because he happened to like silence - a fortunate coincidence for a mute, really. Only that now it felt wrong. The _apartment_ felt wrong, with Ernesto’s things and alebrijes there, but otherwise empty. Even the three chihuahuas who had stayed with him were quiet, following him around like they could tell that he was upset but not knowing what to do to make it better. Why weren’t they with Ernesto now? Had he told them to stay behind and guard the place? Or had he just gone someplace even they could not longer reach him?

_No. No no no. It will be all right. Héctor will find him._

Clinging to that thought as minutes passed and turned into half an hour and then _more,_ Ezequiel had begun wandering through the apartment, looking around. There wasn’t an awful lot to look at, but there were a few things that made him smile a bit, like the huge bag of dog treats in the kitchen. On the bedroom’s floor there was a large dog bed, too, big enough for all of Ernesto’s alebrijes to fit comfortably and with room to spare; it was by far the newest thing in the room, and it didn’t seem to have been used much.

Ezequiel remembered how the tiny dogs had curled up against him on the mattress in Ernesto’s old shack, and how Diablo still did that with him now, and he suspected that they slept on Ernesto’s bed there, too. At least it looked much more comfortable than the old mattress in the shack had been, with some actual covers and a pillow on it. They even looked passably clean.

There was also a desk at the far end of the room that had definitely seen better days. The drawer was half-open, and Ezequiel peered into it. Inside there were sheets of paper, all covered in a handwriting he immediately recognized as his own: his letters, a whole bunch of them. Had Ernesto been keeping them all?

Ezequiel reached into the drawer to pull out a few, but he paused when his gaze fell on something else, a small waste basket right by the desk. It was empty save from a crumpled-up piece of paper, and he reached to pick it up, suddenly curious. Had he been writing something and stopped? Was that a response to his last letter? He uncrumpled the page, and blinked. It was supposed to be a letter to him, yes, because he could read his name on the top left… but it was the _only_ thing he could read.

Everything else, down to almost the middle of the sheet, had been crossed out so heavily and so many times that it was impossible to read, the strokes of pen so violent they had ripped through the paper in some places. He’d wanted to destroy it, make it impossible for anyone to read. But why…?

_What if he wanted to tell me he wouldn’t cross back?_

The unease that had been weighting in his chest cavity turned into something more akin to fear again, and Ezequiel’s fingers clenched on the crumpled paper. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier, when he had seen how tired and sad he was before his mausoleum? _I’m not going to be here for much longer,_ he’d said. What he’d meant seemed so obvious now, and he’d missed all the signs. If only he’d guessed, he’d have done something, called for help, get someone to talk him out of it. Had Ernesto known that? Was that why he’d said nothing?

_I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my presence. I just... want some peace. Nothing more._

The thought made him feel like he was about to throw up, lack of stomach or not, but it didn’t last long. A sudden noise caused him to recoil, and the alebrijes to start yapping, running to the living room.

It was the sound of a door opening.

* * *

_He didn’t do it. He can’t have done it. I refuse to believe it._

As he kept following Diablo, the mantra became less and less convincing to Héctor. The small dog had been so sure when leading them to Ernesto’s home, but now he looked lost; he would wander one way, pause to sniff around, change direction… he was looking for a trail but failing to find any, as though the man he was looking for had simply faded away.

No. No, that was impossible. He could see why Cheque would be worried, but it just couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t something Ernesto would do, letting himself fade away. He would never.

_You thought he would never, until he did._

Socorro’s voice echoed in the back of his mind and caused him to pause, a chill running up his spine. Was he truly certain he would never? And on what basis? There was so much about him he hadn’t seen coming; he’d never known Ernesto as well as he’d thought he had. Maybe he _had_ crossed for the very purpose of dying again. If so, Héctor himself had been the one who had given him the means to do so, by dropping the charges that would have gotten him arrested right at the crossing point.

_No. This isn’t what I wanted to happen. I wanted to give him a chance to pick himself up, not to end it all. Cheque would miss him, he had to know that, how could he leave him behind?_

What would he even say to Ezequiel if he couldn’t find him anywhere? Would they ever even know for sure if he was gone? Was there any way--

“Ruff! Woof!”

Héctor was snapped from his morbid thoughts by sudden, excited barking. He looked up just on time to see Diablo pick a street and rush into it, tail wagging, ears perked up. Héctor hurried after him, hoping with everything he had that he had caught Ernesto’s scent.

The alebrije was fast, but still so very tiny, and Héctor was able to keep up with him until they road ended and they found themselves on a market square. It was quite busy, as all markets were after Día de los Muertos – plenty of offerings to trade – but Héctor hardly noticed any of it. His eyes found right away a figure in a dark coat and hat walking quickly at the edge of the square, the one Diablo ran up to without hesitation, cutting through the small crowd.

“Yip! Yip!”

As Héctor found himself breathing more easily, as though a weight had been lifted from his chest, Ernesto stopped in his tracks. He turned to Diablo, but even as he did so he was careful to lower his hat, so that it would keep most of his face hidden. He crouched down to fuss on the dog – who immediately flopped on his back for a belly rub, looking nothing short of ecstatic – and didn’t see Héctor approaching quietly, so that he wouldn’t draw people’s attention on either of them.

Héctor opened his mouth to speak, not quite sure how he was supposed to greet him, but his mouth got there before his brain did. “Coyote in the den?”

It had been a joke they’d had as children, back when Estéban de la Cruz had seemed the scariest man on Earth to Héctor as opposed to just a drunk, miserable man with a lame leg and too many ghosts to visit him at night – scary enough to keep him away from Ernesto’s house. Whenever his father was away, or asleep or passed out, Ernesto has his own way to tell him that.

“The coyote is asleep,” he said now, just as he’d said so many times back then, only that once it had been an almost triumphant cry and now it was only a low, thoughtful murmur. Ernesto stopped rubbing Diablo’s belly and stood to look at him. Beneath the rim of the hat he looked tired, but not as wary or surprised as he’d been last time he’d approached him. “You used to be afraid of him. I forgot.”

Héctor shrugged. “Most kids were. A few adults, too. He was an intimidating guy.”

“But no more dangerous than a toothless old mutt, all things considered. It was me you should have feared,” Ernesto muttered. It was nothing but the bare truth, so not much to argue there. Héctor opted to change subject instead.

“Where have you been?” he asked, and Ernesto shrugged.

“Having a drink with acquaintances,” was the vague answer, and he gave a bitter smile. “Toasting to the tenth year of my brand new afterlife. Lucky me.”

“It was nine years ago, not--”

“Nine years ago last night. This was the dawn of the tenth year,” Ernesto retorted, then, “I assume the kids told you they saw me in Santa Cecilia. Is that why you’ve come looking for me? I should count myself lucky it wasn’t your wife and her alebrije.”

“Why were you--”

“I can go where I please. I did nothing to either of them.”

“I know, I just--”

“What _is_ it with your family getting cursed?”

“Well, this time it was on purpose. We fixed that quickly.”

“Sorry, let me rephrase. What is it with your family?”

“She just wanted to see her best friend again,” Héctor said, a defensive note in his voice. He still remembered the sinking feeling when Ernesto had died as well and had not, even once, sought him. Héctor had known by then that he’d taken credit for his songs, but as year after year passed he’d held onto the hope that it might be a misunderstanding, something Ernesto could and would clear up once in the Land of the Dead. The fact he’d never tried to see him once had dashed that hope, and felt like a betrayal. He hadn’t known, then, that he’d already betrayed him the worst way. “And Cheque was happy she did,” he added in the end.

Ernesto snorted, but seemed to have nothing to retort to that. Héctor opened his mouth to speak again, but someone else spoke first, so suddenly it caused him to recoil.

“Hey, do I know you?”

“He looks familiar...”

“Oh, it’s the musician! Señor Rivera! Can I have an autograph?”

“Me too! For my sister!”

“Can you sign my rib?”

_Ah, rayos, not now._

Héctor was aware of the mutters of the crowd, of the growing attention on him. He generally didn’t mind it too much – it was never something he’d sought, but sometimes he’d hear people saying how much his songs had meant to them and there was a comfort in that, in knowing that his words had helped people in their dark moments across time, even if through Ernesto. It made it feel like his untimely death and all that had followed hadn’t been _entirely_ for nothing, after all.

But now he could do without the attention – they both could. Knowing that running off would only get attention on him, Ernesto had flattened himself against the wall of a nearby house as though hoping it would make him invisible. Fat chance.

“… Wait, I know the other one too.”

“Is that…?”

“De la Cruz?”

“No, it can’t be...”

“Hey, you, with the hat--!”

All right, time to get out of there and quick. As Diablo stiffened and went to stand between them and the crowd, hackles raised – he looked about as dangerous as a hamster, but one had to admire the effort – Héctor gave what he hoped was an easy laugh and reached to put his arm around Ernesto’s stiff shoulders, waving his other hand.

“Hey! Yep, it’s me, you got me!” he exclaimed, still smiling, and began moving towards the entrance to the road to their right, taking Ernesto with him. “I’d love to stay and sign… stuff, honest, but I really need to be off and catch up with an old amigo, as you can see.”

With most of the square’s attention now on them, his statement was met with plenty of confused looks. Well, that was good. Héctor was fairly sure that, without his presence, Ernesto would have been met with far more hostility than confusion. “But, isn’t that--?”

“Oh look at the time, we really need to be off!” Héctor exclaimed and with one last wave, he pushed Ernesto into the street. The confusion would linger for a few more moments, but not for too long, and he turned to meet Ernesto’s gaze. “All right. Question. Do you want any of those guys to follow us all the way to your place?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Then you know what we gotta do.”

“Run?”

“ _Run.”_

They did run, as fast as they could. If not for the yapping alebrije after them, Héctor could have almost thought they were back in time, back in Santa Cecilia – two snot-nosed brats with wild hair, scabbed elbows and bleeding knees, running through alleys and streets with a handful of stolen apples, fast enough to outrun the devil. Even knowing what had come next wasn’t quite enough to spoil those memories; it had been a good time. Happy years, and uncomplicated as only childhood can be.

They came to a stop a good distance away, and Héctor leaned down with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Funny how they still got out of breath without lungs, but there were things he’d long since stopped questioning. “I think we lost them,” he panted after a few moments, and pulled himself upright.

Ernesto was breathing fast, too, looking back the way they had come. Seeing that no one was coming their way, he seemed to relax a fraction. “Yes,” he muttered. “We lost them.”

“I’m still the faster one, I see. Pretty sure I could race you to your front door and win. It’s not that far.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ernesto muttered, but the sound that left him did sound a lot like a guffawing laugh. They began to walk again, and he reached to pull the scarf up over his chin some before glancing back at him. “… Wait. How do you know where I live?”

“Diablo lead us there.”

“Us?” Ernesto repeated, this time in clear alarm. Héctor could see what he was thinking clear as day: Pepita or, worse yet, Imelda with a boot in her hand.

“Me and Cheque,” he said quickly. “He has your offering from the ofrenda Socorro set up for you. He said he’d promised to take them to you. I caught him while he was going, and figured I’d go with him. He’s waiting for us there - he was really worried when we found no one home, you know. He’ll be happy to see you. He got it into his head that you hadn’t crossed back on time,” Héctor said, and began to laugh… but that died on his mouth the moment he he glanced at Ernesto and saw him turning away quickly, clenching his jaw.

It was only one moment, with no words spoken, but it told him _everything._ Héctor stopped walking, eyes wide. The relief he’d felt faded into dread.

_I tried so hard not to fade so I could cross, and now he wants to cross so he can fade?_

“Ernesto…”

“Don’t,” he cut him off, his voice clipped and cold. He’d paused as well and had lowered his gaze, the scarf and the brim of the hat now hiding his face almost entirely. The message - _don’t go there_ \- was clear enough, but Héctor found he couldn’t avoid it.

“You were really--”

“But I did not,” Ernesto snapped, and glared down at his hands, at the unmarred whiteness of his bones. “I could not. My alebrijes, they wouldn’t _shut up,_ and I… I got scared and crossed back, so now I’m stuck here for another year,” he added.

Something about that sentence made a chill run up Héctor’s spine. Another year, he’d said. Would he do it again next year? And maybe the one after that? Year after year until finally his alebrijes wouldn’t be enough to lead him back and he found the courage to go through?

Héctor found the thought alone terrifying. He knew what coming close to dying for good felt like, but he’d fought with all he could to avoid it, to keep himself from fading into oblivion. He couldn’t allow it to happen because he had a goal, and hope. Ernesto… didn’t.

“I crossed back,” Ernesto was repeating, gaze fixed on his clenched fists. Suddenly his features twisted, and his voice broke. It was as though the most awful realization had just dawned on him. “Dios mío, _I’m still here._ It was supposed to _end_ at dawn and I’m still he--”

“De la Cruz!” Héctor called out, and grasped Ernesto’s shoulder as tight as he could without hurting. It was the only thing he could think of to keep him grounded and, thankfully, it seemed to work. Ernesto recoiled and looked up at him, blinking as though he wasn’t entirely certain how either of them had come to be there. Then he breathed out and spoke very quietly, a pleading quality to his voice Héctor had never heard before.

“Does it get any better?”

It had taken over ninety years for things to get better for Héctor, and that wasn’t something he could tell to a man on the brink of ending his own existence after less than a _tenth_ of that time. Well, he could have and maybe it wouldn’t be undeserved. He could tell him that his situation had been different, that he’d never screwed up the way Ernesto had, but  but then what? What would even be the point?

“It doesn’t get worse,” he finally found himself saying, and made an attempt at what he hoped would come across as a convincing smile. “You just need to hold onto something. I know I did. The thought of seeing Coco again kept me going.”

Ernesto snorted, looking away, but didn’t try to get rid of his grip. “What I want back is beyond my grasp for good. I have nothing to _hold onto,_ as you put it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t bring the kid into this,” Ernesto snapped, and Héctor’s smile turned into a grin.

“I didn’t. You brought him up all on your own,” he pointed out, and laughed at the annoyed glance that gained him. ‘Annoyed’ was good, easier to deal with than ‘desperate’. He let his grip on Ernesto’s shoulder slacken, but he kept his hand there and tilted his head towards the street ahead. “Come on, Cheque is waiting. I’ll walk you home.”

For one times’ sake, Ernesto followed without arguing. Not that there would have been much time for him to argue: they’d ran quite a bit of the way, and it only took only a few minutes for them to get to their destination. Ernesto reached into his pocket, probably for the keys, and Héctor - who had just dared take his hand off his shoulder - shook his head.

“Don’t bother, the door is open. Cheque is inside.”

That gained him a scowl. “You forced your way in?”

Héctor decided not to explain that they’d rung the doorbell and thought it possible he’d been too drunk to hear them. “No worries, the door is fine. We just used a lockpick.”

“Why in the _world_ are you walking around with a lockpick?”

“Hey, ask your great-great-grandkid. Never said the lockpick was mine.”

“Oh, so when he turns out to be a burglar in the making he’s _my_ great-great-grandkid,” Ernesto muttered, and he seemed somewhat surprised by Héctor’s resulting laugh. Not that the quip had been especially funny, but a quip it had been, and that was a relief. Anything was better than the desperation he’d heard in his voice only minutes earlier, he thought as Ernesto pushed the door open and they stepped in.

Their arrival was greeted by loud barking, and Diablo shot into the house to greet the other alebrijes. They were playing and tumbling within moments, and almost covered the sounds of steps then Ezequiel came running through the door on their left. He skidded to a halt, and didn’t seem to even register Héctor’s presence. He stared at Ernesto for a moment before he dropped something on the floor and threw himself at him, kicking him in the shin with his brand new shoes hard enough to make him yelp.

Well, Héctor thought, Imelda would approve.

“Ow! _Ow!_ What was that abou--” Ernesto began to protest, only to trail off when Cheque furiously wiped his eyes with a sleeve and then threw his arms around him, clinging to him like he thought he’d vanish into smoke and ashes if he didn’t hold on tight enough. For a moment Ernesto stared down at him, taken aback, then his gaze moved to the thing that Cheque had dropped - a crumpled piece of paper that had once been covered in writing, but had been crossed out so many times it was unreadable.

It meant nothing to Héctor, but it had to mean something to Ernesto, because the next moment he saw the confusion on his face replaced by dawning comprehension. Then his old friend was kneeling, pulling the boy into a tight embrace of his own.

“I’m still here, niño,” he said, and this time he did not choke out those words: it sounded like he was heaving a sigh of relief. “I’m still here.”

Feeling more than slightly out of place, but still not sure leaving those two alone unsupervised would be a good idea just yet, Héctor closed the door behind himself very quietly. When he turned back Ernesto was standing again with Cheque his arms, the boy’s own arms tight around his neck. He refused to let go, his eyes shut, a cheek pressed against Ernesto’s shoulder.

_He was left behind by his family one too many times already. Last thing he needs is for that to happen again. Of course he was terrified._

When their gazes met Ernesto looked away quickly, looking nothing short of embarrassed. Héctor was reminded, very vividly, of the look on his face every time his mother called him ‘Ernestito’ or ‘Tito’ in public or, worse yet, hugged him and refused to let him go. It made for perfect mocking material, and Héctor rarely let the chance to poke fun at his friend pass by. A pang of nostalgia hit just as Ernesto finally spoke.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he muttered, breaking the silence, eyes fixed on the pan de muerto on the table in the middle of the room.

Whatever Héctor had expected him to say, that was not it. He blinked. “Ah. Good?” he said, to realize only a moment later what the statement must have been about. “Oh, wait. That was an offer, right?” he added. It sounded rather stupid to his own ears, and he half-expected Ernesto to roll his eyes, but that didn’t happen. Instead he seemed, if possible, even more uncomfortable.

“It’s. Not poisoned,” he muttered, like poison would do anything to either of them _now,_ and blinked when Cheque suddenly shuddered in his arms in what was a silent, but unmistakable snicker. He shot a quick glance at Héctor, who raised an eyebrow. He had _questions_ about that kid’s sense of humor, but as long as it made him feel better, he could play along.

“All right. Would love some coffee as long as _I_ get to brew it and _you_ stay a mile away from the cups,” he said, and Ernesto gave an exaggerated snort, turning slightly to Cheque.

“Can you believe it? You poison a guy _once_ and they never let you hear the end of it.”

Another silent laugh caused the boy’s frame to shake, and it was with some relief that Héctor saw him finally letting go of Ernesto’s neck and pulling back. Ernesto grinned at him and adjusted his grip so that he could use a hand to brush back the boy’s hair. “That’s better. So, how do you like your coffee?”

Wait, what? “I’m not making coffee for the _kid,_ Ernesto. Dios mío, I let you look after Coco!”

“A grave mistake if there ever was one. Didn’t poison her, though.”

“Thank God for small miracles. Wait, did you give _her_ coffee?”

“I refuse to answer that question.”

Héctor sighed, reaching up to rub his temples. “All right. Whatever. Do you have… I don’t know, juice or something?”

“It’s either coffee or tequila. Or milk.”

“Milk sounds good.”

“I think I opened it two weeks ago. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“... I’ll get him a glass of water.”

When he walked out of the kitchen - he had to give a couple of cups a clean before using them, since Ernesto clearly hadn’t bothered since their last use - they were sitting at the table, with Cheque writing on his whiteboard and Ernesto looking down at it. Neither glanced up when Héctor almost stumbled over two of the alebrijes, who were struggling over a toy.

Cheque wasn’t talking about his visit to the Land of the Living, not at all. He was writing about his mother, something Héctor had never seen him doing. He was always very guarded on the subject, and he’d shared little about her with them; now Héctor wondered if he’d spoken of her in his letters to Ernesto in the past year. He’d pulled out her picture, too, the one Socorro had given him: it was now in Ernesto’s hand, and he was glancing down at it.

SHE TOOK ME TO OAXACA WHEN I WAS LITTLE, Cheque was writing. IT WAS FUN.

“Oh, Oaxaca,” Héctor said, sitting down and sliding a cup of coffee across the table in front of Ernesto. “We were arrested there, once. Or was it in Toluca?”

“No, Toluca is where we lost our guitars in a card game thanks to _someone_ I won’t be naming, and had to run real fast to keep them.”

“Well, if _someone_ hadn’t left most of our cash in the pocket of a pair of trousers that had to be left behind when the husband of that nice lady from the market came back home early…”

“You’re getting it mixed up, it was the _wife_ of one of the bartenders who came home early. Either way, we were arrested in Oaxaca,” Ernesto said through a mouthful of pan de muerto, and blinked when Ezequiel looked up at him. He seemed to have forgotten his presence for a moment. “Er… a brawl in a cantina. Nothing interesting. What did _you_ do in Oaxaca?”

MAMÁ TOOK ME TO LA GUELAGUTEZA. THERE WAS A LOT OF CHOCOLATE. _SHE_ NEVER MADE ME EAT VEGETABLES, he added, and shot Héctor a somewhat accusing look. He shrugged it off, taking a sip of coffee.

“Take your complaints to Imelda, not me,” he said, and the kid rolled his eyes before he wiped his whiteboard clean to write again. SHE HAS A NICE VOICE, TOO. SHE USED TO SING TO ME. YOU’LL LIKE HER WHEN SHE GETS HERE, Cheque added, causing Ernesto to blink. Héctor could easily guess he hadn’t thought for a moment about the possibility of meeting his great-granddaughter after her death, and he could also guess what Cheque was trying to do by bringing it up: give Ernesto something to look forward to, so that he wouldn’t consider pulling the same stunt the following year. Not a bad move, that.

Unaware of Héctor’s thoughts, Cheque shot a glance towards a corner of the room and began writing again.

CAN YOU SING CIELITO LINDO? IT WAS HER FAVORI--

“No,” Ernesto said quickly, causing Cheque to blink and Héctor to frown. He turned the way Cheque had to see something leaning against the wall by the couch: a guitar. Old and rather beaten-up, but a guitar nonetheless… though looking carefully, Héctor could see the dust that covered it, a good layer of it. It told a very simple story - that of a guitar that had been bought or perhaps salvaged, looked at, and then put away to never be touched again.

That was saddening, in a way. Yes, Ernesto had always thrived more in the act of the performance, in the fame and popularity, but he _had_ loved music, too. Had he tried to sing to himself, only to find that it only left a bitter taste in his mouth? Héctor could relate to that.

 _You know I don't play anymore, Cheech,_ his own voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind. Neither did Ernesto now, it seemed… but unlike him those days, he did keep a guitar. He no longer played, like Cheque no longer spoke, but he _wished_ to.

“I don’t know the words,” Ernesto was saying, but it was a bad lie if Héctor had ever heard one. Everyone and their alebrije knew Cielito Lindo; there was simply no way he could pretend he did not. And, in fact, Cheque looked extremely unconvinced.

“He needs to practice, is all,” Héctor found himself saying with a shrug. “It's probably been a long time since he last played it. He'll do it next time,” he added. Ernesto, who had opened his mouth to say something, blinked in clear surprise. Héctor shrugged. “He knows where to find you now. Do you think we could keep him away even if we wanted to? Think again. Deny him something, and it becomes his heart’s desire.”

 _I wonder where he gets it from,_ he almost added, but he knew that wasn’t something he needed to point out. In the year he’d lived with them, Héctor had seen just how many similarities there were beneath the surface between that child and another boy he’d known, a long time ago, in Santa Cecilia.

If he’d had a chance to grow older, would the man he’d become bear similarities to the one who had left his body behind in the streets of Mexico City, too? It was a thought Héctor was unable to entirely let go of. Maybe he would have and maybe not, but they would never know. Unlike his or Ernesto’s, Ezequiel’s childhood was forever frozen in time. It was a question without answer; best to leave it at that.

Unaware of his musings, Ernesto was giving Ezequiel a faint smile. One of his arms was firmly around the child’s shoulders. “... Right. I will play it for you next time you come over.”

Ezequiel smiled back, and began writing again – this time talking about the ocarina Socorro gave him, did he know how to play one properly? Could he teach him how to do it if he brought it with him next time?

“I might. It’s been a long time since I even looked at an ocarina, but I suppose...”

With Ernesto’s full attention on the boy, Héctor leaned back against the back of his chair. He didn’t speak much more through that unlikely meeting, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t about him at all.

And besides, he could take advantage to eat most of the pan de muerto by himself.

* * *

Héctor was quiet on their way back home.

That was a bit odd, because he usually did enough talking for both of them, but Ezequiel decided not to ask. He knew better than anyone that sometimes being prodded to talk is the very last thing people need. He’d been all right when they had walked out of the door, really, only that then Ernesto had called out for him.

“Héctor?”

They had turned, and Ernesto had looked away after a moment, his features twisting in an expression that said, loud and clear, that he’d regretted calling out. Still he’d spoken again, though it made little sense to Ezequiel. “... Yes.”

It had made little sense to Héctor as well, apparently. “Yes what?”

A scoff. “You asked a question last year. If you forgot, that’s your problem. The answer is yes. If it’s worth anything,” Ernesto had muttered, gaze low, and had stepped back inside before Héctor could answer, slamming the door shut. Héctor had stared at it for a few moments, blinking, before he’d given a wistful smile.

“It is,” he’d muttered, like it made sense, and it was the last he’d spoken for a while. In the end, it was Ezequiel to break the silence… sort of.

THANKS FOR TAKING ME THERE.

Héctor recoiled, as though snapped from his thoughts by the pull at his sleeve. He looked down at the whiteboard, and smiled. “Heh! Like you weren’t already heading off on your own, chamaco,” he muttered. “Give me a couple of days to figure out how to bring this up at home, all right? We won’t keep you from visiting, I promise. It just might take some… negotiating. And I’m good at it,” he added, but his grin turned into confusion when Ezequiel wrote again: GOOD. YOU’RE ABOUT TO NEED THAT.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

IT’S ALMOST THREE.

“And…?”

TODAY WAS YOUR TURN TO COOK LUNCH.

The mixture of surprise, guilt and actual _fear_ on Héctor’s face was pretty amusing, but what really made him grin was the sputtering that followed. “Ah, _rayos,_ I forgot-- when did-- why didn’t you _remind_ me?” he protested, and Ezequiel shrugged.

I WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME.

“Ay, you little, sneaky-- we’re going to have _words_ about this, you hear!”

Héctor’s last words had to be yelled, because he was already running off towards home as fast as he could, as though that would make him any less late. Ezequiel snickered and clipped the whiteboard back on his belt before he ran after him, determined to catch up, a yapping alebrije in tow.

* * *

For a long time after they left, Ernesto stayed sprawled on the couch with his eyes fixed on the old guitar in a corner and three napping chihuahuas across his chest.

If would have been easy to tell himself that the reason why he wasn’t getting up to pick up that damn old thing was that he didn’t want to wake the dogs up. You’re just not _supposed_ to move if a pet falls asleep on you and, besides, they had earned their rest. If not for their barking and howling and _whining,_ if not for their sheer refusal to just leave without him, he--

_No. Don’t go there._

He tried, he really did, but his thoughts kept drifting back to where he’d been only hours earlier, how _close_ it had been. When he’d crossed back, his mind a blur of terror and incredulity at the whole situation, the sun was almost out and the bridge had very nearly faded beneath his feet. He’d found himself on the other side in the nick of time, trembling, holding three squirming alebrijes tight to his chest - the very last one to return.

A crossing guard had berated him for taking so long, clearly without recognizing him, but he hadn’t stayed to listen. He’d left quickly, ordered his alebrijes to go home with the firmest voice he could muster, and headed towards the abandoned barrio without allowing himself to think of anything but the drink that had been promised to him if he returned by midday.

He’d had the drink, plus some small talk. That had made his head stop hurting for a time, and his hands stop shaking. It had quickly become clearly that Anita had told no one what he’d been planning to do, and she’d only brought it up once the bottle was empty, as he left.

“It was close, wasn’t it?”

“... Yes.”

“But here you are. Did you cross back for the pleasure of our company or for the drink?”

 _Neither,_ he’d thought, _only for some pan de muerto, and a child foolish enough to love me._

“If I had, I’d be already regretting it,” he'd said instead. “It tasted like paint remover.”

“My bad, I’ll add a dash of arsenic next time. Stop looking so dour, a lot can happen in a year. Give it a go. If your afterlife still sucks, you can always go through with it next time.”

“I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to say.”

A shrug. “Maybe not. Guess who has two thumbs and no degree in psychology.”

“You went and declared me a narcissist last month.”

“That doesn’t take a degree.”

Ernesto had scoffed, and left without arguing. All he wanted was to return home and allow himself to sleep. Or break down, whichever came first; he wasn’t sure himself whether he should be relieved or distraught. Except that Héctor had found him first, with that insufferable grin and kindness he didn’t know how to respond to. It would have been so much easier if he could hate him, keep piling blame on him like he’d been doing for so long… but damn him, he made it nearly impossible. Him and that kid.

_He’ll be happy to see you. He got it into his head that you hadn’t crossed back on time._

Ernesto had no idea how the boy had guessed, but what he knew was that he would never allow him to find out, under any circumstances, just _how_ close it had truly been - that he might have never crossed back, no matter how much his alebrijes howled, if he hadn't met him that evening. He’d let Héctor guess, and that was humiliating enough.

With a yawn, one of his alebrijes slipped from his chest down to the crook of his arm, and Ernesto smiled faintly, letting her gnaw at his thumb. The small dog settled quickly, and he turned his gaze back to the guitar in the corner, the smile fading from his face. The throbbing ache in his head was back, subdued but still there. It had hardly ever stopped in years.

_Can you sing Cielito Lindo?_

_I can’t sing at all._

He could once, of course. There had been a time when he could play it with with one arm tied behind his back, too, but that was back when he could sing without feeling the taste of--  
_poison_ _  
_ \--something unpleasant in his mouth, when his fingers didn’t turn into lead the moment they touched a guitar’s strings. Now he couldn’t, and he should have thrown out that damn guitar months ago… but he found he couldn’t do that, either.

 _He needs to practice, is all,_ Héctor had said. _It's probably been a long time since he last played it. He'll do it next time._

Next time, right. For better or worse he was still there and there _would_ be a next time, because Ezequiel refused to just ditch him… or to be ditched. He would show at his door, probably with an ocarina in his hands, and bring it up yet again.

_Can you sing Cielito Lindo?_

Slowly, causing his alebrijes to slide off him and onto the couch with a few whimpers of protest, Ernesto de la Cruz sat up and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He stared at the guitar for what felt like a long time, still and unblinking, wanting to reach out but not daring to.

_This is stupid. I just need a drink._

He wanted that drink, sure enough, but he didn’t stand up. Instead he reached to grab the guitar, and wiped some dust off it with a sleeve. It was a far cry from what had been his guitar - _no, not his, never truly his_ \- for many years. It was old and so beaten-up it seemed moments away from falling apart, like the one he’d had as a boy when things were simpler, when music was just _music_ and a cheering friend was all the praise he’d felt he needed.

_Let’s do another one, Neto! Just another!_

It had stopped being _enough_ early on along the way, but now it would have to do. He could never again play for a crowd; a public of one was all he could hope for. He seemed unable to play or sing for himself. But this wouldn’t be for himself at all, would it?

_Can you sing Cielito Lindo?_

_Well, can I?_

Ernesto gave the guitar a soft strum, listening closely, and spent a minute tuning it before strumming again. Much better; not perfect, but better. After a few moments of stillness, holding his breath without realizing it and under the watchful eye of his alebrijes, he finally began playing.

Moving his fingers over the strings took no effort at all, and remembering the notes came just as natural; he didn’t miss a single one, and as music filled the room he waited for his fingers to stiffen, and for the ache in his head to turn to pain.

Neither thing happened and, at long last, he dared to sing.

 _“De la Sierra Morena,_  
_cielito lindo, vienen bajando,_  
_Un par de ojitos negros,_ _  
cielito lindo, de contrabando…”_

His chest didn’t tighten. There was no bitter taste in his mouth. His voice grew steadier and he felt somewhat lightheaded, in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He’d have laughed if he hadn’t been so focused on the notes, on his own singing voice, on how good it was to hear both again. He’d sung in front of the biggest crowds in Mexico in life, for thousands more in death, and yet it had never felt quite like that. So much was lost but this, at least, he could reclaim.

 _Cheque is going to love it,_ he thought, and somehow that felt more rewarding than the loudest of round applause. It didn’t make sense, and at the same time it seemed natural. He decided not to question it: he just closed his eyes and kept singing.

 _“Ay, ay, ay, ay,_ _  
_ _Canta y no llores…”_

The constant ache in his head grew distant, neglectable, and in the end it faded entirely. Ernesto didn’t notice, like he didn’t notice the passing minutes and hours, the dimming light as the sun set on the first day of the tenth year since his downfall.

For a long time, he just kept playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand it's done! Just short of 100,000 words, go figure. And I was so sure this one wouldn't get past 50,000 at most.
> 
> This was loads and loads of fun to write, honestly. NaNoWriMo projects aside, I don't think I've ever written anything this quickly. I'll get back to [this series ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/900630)now, since I had to leave it in the back burner for a while, but yeah - I had a blast with this one. 
> 
> Thanks a lot to everyone who commented/kudo-ed/read it this far - I really hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


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